More Ferarum
by dudugodudugo
Summary: Harry Potter wants to be normal. After attending his first year at Hogwarts, he realises that being a wizard is anything but... This is a second look at Year 2, respun for a Potter who wants to be normal but inevitably can't be. Please review.
1. Chapter 1

More Ferarum

Latin translation: "Like beasts..."

**AN: **

**This is about a younger Harry Potter, age 12. What if his first year at Hogwarts, instead of enlivening him, actually disturbed him? I'd imagine finding out that you're a wizard, only to endanger your friends and almost die, as well as finding out how weak the school's defenses are and how strong Voldemort is, would disturb a lot of people. Especially children who want to be normal.**

**I have more written and I'll post that, but if you have suggestions let me know. **

He came back late, drawing his hood strings tighter as he slid his key into the lock. It was old routine, yet somehow, he'd never felt more like an intruder. Disturbed, Harry slipped off his shoes and creeped inside.

"Where've you been?" Vernon growled from the living room.

_Fuck_

His first instinct was to remain in the kitchen, one hand still on the doorknob. He thought about running. He'd run to the rail. Further. He'd run straight to London, even...

"Boy!"

If only he _would_ leave this place. Wincing, Harry shut the door and pulled back his hood. His legs felt like fast-drying cement as he slowly stepped into the flickering light of the telly.

"Uncle." His voice sat like a dead worm in his throat. "I w-was-"

"Trying to sneak by me, were you?" his uncle interrupted, shifting to a better position. The couch springs squeaked under the weight. "Trying to get off scot-free, eh? Not tonight, you don't! Not after what you did to your poor aunt. I'll have you know, Petunia had to make dinner alone, and now she's exhausted herself and gone off to bed early. By god, boy, what were you thinking?"

In the dim glow, he could just make out Vernon's chest, quickly rising and falling. Harry swallowed, taking a careful step back. He couldn't take it anymore. All the yelling, all the punishments.

This- _this_- must be hell.

"Well? Come on, then, let's hear what you've got to say for yourself! Shirking all responsibility like that, by god, that's not how I raised you." Winded, Vernon sucked in a deep breath. "Well, boy? I'd damn well like to hear a reason for it!"

"I went out, to..." His legs were cold and suddenly he felt nauseated. Harry crossed his arms, leaning against the kitchen doorway. His voice sounded hollow as he muttered, "I needed to clear my head."

Vernon muted the telly and leaned towards him, his eyes narrowing. "And is your head clear now, boy?"

"I don't know," he snapped.

"Don't take any attitude with me," Vernon growled, shaking his fist at him. Harry flinched. "I'm not the louse who abandoned my aunt, am I? Your indecency doesn't fly with me, boy. I expect you to earn your keep around here, you understand? There are people who actually work for a living, maybe none at that _school_ of yours, but certainly around here!"

Vernon leaned back, making a disgusted sound with his throat. "You're a goddamn waste of space, Potter. Go to your room and stay there. And don't you dare show your face again until you've prepared a good, long apology to Petunia and I."

The dismissal was clear. Harry stumbled up the stairs, every step like a seismic wave through his body. As he reached the landing, he heard the telly come back alive. Harry glanced at the grandfather clock. 10:05. Mildly he realised that Vernon was up to watch the 10 o'clock news.

A wave of cold air hit him as he stepped into his dark bedroom, and sank itself into his damp clothes. He grit his teeth as he undressed. He should have worn a watch. If he'd had a watch, he'd have known that Vernon was still up. He'd have waited for the news to end before coming back. He knew that Vernon always stayed up for the news...

Shivering, Harry shut his window and crawled into bed, curling into himself. A part of him wished he would run away, but where would he run to?

On his desk sat Hedwig's empty cage, mocking him. He hadn't seen her in weeks… Not since the beginning of summer. As he pulled a threadbare blanket across his shoulders, Harry bitterly wondered if Vernon had killed her.

x.x.x.

A rapt knocking startled him awake. Without thinking Harry's head snapped towards the window, the sun momentarily blinding him. But, no. No, it was the door that was knocking.

"I've a list of chores for you," Petunia said in that sharp way of hers as she tossed a sheet of paper through his newly installed cat flap.

Slipping on his glasses, Harry stumbled over to the list and picked it up.

"I expect it all done by 5," Petunia continued, her heels clicking on the wood floor as she made her demands. "Including dinner. I won't be helping you with that tonight."

"Yes, Aunt."

"Vernon will be home by then," she warned him. "He wants to talk to you."

_The apology_

Something cold slithered into his stomach. "Oh," he said quietly.

Petunia didn't hear him. In fact, she was already headed to the kitchen. He could hear her heels clicking down the stairs. Sighing, Harry pulled on his jeans from last night and a worn shirt from the closet. His alarm clock already read 8:40 AM. He'd have to work quickly.

Throughout the day, he almost shrunk in on himself. Cleaning the kitchen, weeding the garden, polishing the wood. As Harry crouched on the floor of the bathroom, the stench of bleach rotting his nostrils, he was overcome with the urge to drink some. Harry paused, confused, staring at the bottle.

"I'm going out," Petunia announced from the doorway, startling him. Harry turned around. "I'm playing bridge with the Masons, and then I'm going to get a manicure. I should be back about 5."

Harry nodded, resisting the urge to rub his eyes. After all, his hands were covered in bleach.

"And throw away that shirt before I come back!" Petunia scolded. Harry looked down to find spots of bleach. It had turned his blue shirt into a speckled white mess. "I won't have that in the washing machine," his aunt muttered skeptically as she left. He sighed.

At 5, just as he was plating dinner, he heard a car roll into the driveway. Harry's heart leapt into his throat as he heard the engine flick off and the car door open.

Fear sent a cold shiver down his spine. "Uncle Vernon," Harry said, his voice flopping out the greeting. He involuntarily shuddered as Vernon's eyes met his, the beefy man pulling his key from the lock.

As Vernon moved into the dining room, sniffing, Harry slowly backed towards the stairs. He'd finished his chores. He'd cooked dinner. Had he forgotten something? No… He'd finished everything.

Harry watched apprehensively as two grubby fingers picked up a polished fork and set it down. The his uncle turned around.

"Got something to say to me, boy?"

Harry stared at him, then stared at the food. What?

_The apology_

"Y-yea," Harry choked out, the word burning his tongue like acid. He glanced at the front door. "I want to apologise. Er. Should we wait for Petunia?"

Vernon sat down, his eyes glancing at the front door then his watch. "No," he said, "we won't wait. You might spoil her appetite."

A knot formed in Harry's throat but he resolutely ignored it. "Well," he coughed, "I do have something I want to say to you."

He hated apologising. Vernon always did _that_ face- like he was examining a shitstain on his shoe.

Sighing, Harry wiped his greasy hair out of his eyes. "I wanted to say sorry for making Petunia cook alone. It's a load of hard work.

"I want to apologise to you as well," he added quickly, catching Vernon's narrowed eyes. "You have a business to run and..." What was the rest of that sentence? He couldn't remember. Feeling like a shitstain, Harry shut his mouth.

Vernon didn't seem to mind, though. He chewed thoughtfully on a roll.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon," Harry abruptly finished. It felt like he'd swallowed a razor blade.

The grandfather clock chimed five times, making Harry jump. His uncle looked at it, then Harry. They both knew Petunia was about to arrive. Vernon impatiently gestured towards the stairs, and Harry rushed to comply.

As he reached the stairs, though, a meaty hand landed on his shoulder. "Wait there a minute, boy," Vernon grunted as he painfully squeezed Harry's shoulder. "I don't want to see hide nor hair of you for the rest of the night, you understand? Not a peep!"

He shot Harry a stern frown, his hand squeezing one last time before letting go. The promise was clear. Harry scrambled up the stairs without a backwards glance.

"How was your manicure, darling?" Was the last thing that Harry heard as he shut his bedroom door, rubbing his shoulder in pain.


	2. Chapter 2

Other days were not so kind.

Some nights later, the doorbell rang. Harry hurried to turn the porch light on then he flung open the door, hoping to catch the visitor before the second door chime. "Hullo?" he asked the late night stranger, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Then he saw the uniform. Harry sucked in a breath.

"Good evening-" the police officer glanced at his watch, "or should I say, good morning. My name is Officer Bailey. I'm here on account of a Dudley Dursley, who was arrested and taken into police custody about an hour ago. Is this his residence?"

A laugh bubbled into his mouth. God, he never thought he'd hear those words.

But just as quickly, the urge to laugh died. Fear and realisation cut through Harry as easily as a scalpel. Who would deliver the news? He would.

He nodded slowly, gripping the door tightly, and wished he could stop existing.

"I'll go fetch my uncle," Harry said. He closed the door halfway before he left, and, leaning on the bannister like an old man he shuffled up the stairs into his aunt and uncle's bedroom.

"Vernon?" he called out, knocking on the door. Like a rat scratching for food. He raised his hand and knocked louder. "Vernon?"

Intensely aware of the officer downstairs, Harry swallowed and twisted the doorknob. The silence deafened him more than if Vernon had yelled. He stepped into the bedroom.

"Vernon?"

Like prey approaching a predator, he inched towards the huge lump. One hand timidly fell on Vernon's shoulder, shaking him slightly. "Vernon?"

Surprisingly, Vernon was a light sleeper. Harry jumped as he stared down into small, beady eyes, glinting even in the darkness. "Uncle?" he asked weakly.

Before he knew what was happening, something huge and sweaty grabbed his neck and threw him into the wall.

"Who told you you could come in here, boy!" Vernon yelled, towering over him. Harry curled in on himself, trying to protect his body as much as possible.

This- _this_- was hell.

"There's an officer at the door," he managed to say as Vernon dragged him up by his elbows. "There's a police officer at the door!"

Petunia clicked on her bedside lamp, turning around. "What did you do this time?" she hissed.

Harry's back hit the wall as Vernon shook him. "I didn't do anything! I didn't do anything!" The words was meaningless to the Dursleys but brought him some comfort. Vernon looked at Petunia and threw Harry to the ground.

"Get up!" Vernon yelled. "Show me."

He wanted to cry out but didn't dare. Instead, Harry scrambled out of the room, followed closely by Vernon. He hated the man at his backside. He hated him.

"This is Officer Briggs," Harry muttered as he swung the door wider. Briggs turned around, greeting Vernon with a firm handshake.

"Officer Briggs. Are you Dudley Dursley's father?"

"Yes, I am," Vernon said professionally, tying his robe in a neat knot. "It's 3 in the morning, Officer. What's all this about?"

As he shielded part of his body behind the door, Harry watched the two interact with a third-party sterility. It was really no wonder how Vernon was the CEO of Grunnings. He was just the right sort for it... Two-faced, and cruel.

He wished he had run away instead of going to get Vernon. He glanced behind him, at the back door. There might still be a chance.

"I'll be over at the courthouse at 9, then," his uncle said confidently, shaking the officer's hand. "This is all a ridiculous misunderstanding. I'll clear it up."

As soon as the door closed, a different person took over Vernon's body. Harry could feel the change in the air and he cowered against the wall, shielding his chest with his arms.

"I didn't do anything," he said weakly as Vernon advanced.

"When," Vernon started, his face red, "have I ever allowed you to answer the door! To a police officer no less! If they knew about you," he jabbed Harry's chest, "they'd send you to a home! Or youth detention! You're lucky to have us around, boy. Damned lucky!"

"I'm sorry, Uncle!"

"You know the rules, boy. It'll be 12 this time." Harry shivered. "Get on the couch."

It was hard to remember how old he was, at times like this. He still felt like he was 11, crying and holding his bum. He'd gotten 22 beltings for releasing the snake from the zoo, and hadn't been able to sit properly for weeks. It had been the worst punishment he could remember.

He closed his eyes as he lowered himself onto the soft cushions, shifting his pants to expose his backside. He heard rather than saw Vernon unclip his belt, pulling it out of its loops. The belt buckle dragged against the floor.

"One." Something sharp and cold hit him, sending a shooting pain into his flesh, stinging him. Harry trembled as he bit down on his thumb.

Either Vernon was getting stronger, or his punishments were getting worse. The next one was even quicker, the jolt of pain making him cry out.

After the fifth one, he stopped trying to hold back the tears. "Please stop," he begged.

By the time the 12th one whistled through the air, he was crying and begging.

"Get off the couch, boy," Vernon growled as soon as he'd finished. Harry all but fell off, his backside too inflamed to obey him. As he knelt on the floor, he realised that Petunia was standing on the stairwell, eyeing him with her horse-ish eyes. He scrambled to pull up his pants.

"Was that really necessary?" Petunia muttered, breaking eye contact with her nephew. Harry glanced at his uncle, who was cleaning his belt buckle with a tissue.

"The boy is useless," Vernon said, dismissing her. "He's got to learn to take this like a respectable man, instead of crying like a woman." Vernon looked him up and down, lip curling in mild disgust.

Petunia humphed, though she let Vernon guide her back upstairs. "Is Dudley alright?" she asked in a tender voice, one that was never directed at Harry. He buried his face into the floor and cried.

x.x.x.

Dudley came home from the police station, looking a bit worse for wear. Harry watched him out of the corner of his eye as he dusted the mantle.

"Dudley!" Petunia threw her arms around him. "How's my Dudders holding up? Are you alright?" She looked at Vernon. "What happened?"

"Everything's fine," Vernon boomed, slapping Dudley on the back. "He's got to testify against Piers about alcohol usage, but that's nothing to be ashamed of, right, son? There's no shame in the truth!"

Forgetting about his chores, Harry turned around and stared at the Dursleys.

Dudley stepped away from Vernon looking offended. "I'm not testifying against my best friend!" he said coldly. "Don't you see? I was drinking it with him!"

"Not so loud!" Vernon hissed. "You mustn't go around saying that, Dudders. We want you to have the best possible future, you know that!"

Harry didn't realise Petunia was right next to him until she grabbed the rag out of his hand. "If you're not even going to polish," she snapped, "get up to your room where you belong."

A well of jealousy opened inside of him like a void. He nodded, clenching his fists as he scampered around Vernon and up the stairs. A few minutes later, he heard Dudley's door slam as well.

Fuck family.

x.x.x.

Harry sat at his desk, staring through the window at the darkened street. No one was out this time of night and all the houses were dark. He felt incredibly lonely.

Wasn't it like this every year, though? Ever since he could remember. The house grew quiet as the Dursleys slept soundly in their beds. He had nothing better to do than wonder at how alone and miserable he was.

And obviously Hedwig was gone. Disappeared. Who even knew where she was? Harry picked off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. She could be dead. He didn't know.

Outside, he heard the loud purr of a motorcycle. It broke his reverie and he searched the street for it, but it quickly passed. Harry sighed, hunching over.

Why had no one contacted him yet? Why was he alone?

He shut the window before he could mope anymore. Damn them. Damn them all.

With the concentration of a saint, he took out a paper and pencil and carefully drew a birthday cake with 12 burning candles. As the alarm clock read 12:01, he erased the flames. "Happy Birthday, Harry," he said dejectedly.

What would he wish for this year? It was always the same thing. He'd never told anyone, but it was always the same thing, every year.

_Please be normal_

For the first time, the wish struck him as odd. Normal? How could he ever be normal when he was Harry Potter? How could he be normal, with his parents _dead_ and Voldemort alive?

But if he could never be normal, why did he still want it so badly?

Slowly, Harry crumpled up his birthday cake and threw it in the wastebin.

x.x.x.

"I don't want to go back to school," Harry said over breakfast the next morning.

His uncle carefully folded the newspaper and leaned back in his chair. "What's that, boy?" he grumbled.

"I don't want to go back to school," Harry repeated, the words sounding more uncertain this time. Whatever reaction he'd been expecting, this wasn't it.

"Then what, boy? What're you going to do with that worthless hide?" There was no love in his uncle's words.

"I, er, want to apply to Grunnings."

"Grunnings!" Vernon guffawed. "That's rich, boy. I run a respectable company. I don't hire underage misfits." He picked up his newspaper, smiling like he'd just been told a funny joke.

At this point, Harry felt emptier than he had in a long time. He stared at Vernon, feeling desperation seep into his lungs. "Don't you want me to be normal, Uncle?" he asked, his voice cracking.

"'Tuney! Come in here, dear," Vernon called, gesturing for Petunia. "Look at this article… Someone's gone and bombed King's Cross!"

Petunia tutted as she wiped her hands on a dish rag. "It's nearly 8, Vernon," she said as she patted his shoulder. "You'd best be off to work."

Harry watched as his uncle stood up, brushing crumbs off his suit. Harry couldn't help but wonder, why was this happening? Why was there a knot in his throat?

Even though he had rehearsed this conversation all night, he suddenly felt ridiculous. Why was he baring his heart to Vernon of all people? He was such an fool!

"Still here?" Vernon asked gruffly, pushing him out of the way. Harry didn't turn around as the door slammed shut, nor when he heard the car start. He did jump, though, when Petunia cleared her throat.

"Make yourself useful," she snapped, throwing a rag at him.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:**

**I wrote a lot of this after re-reading Ferretbrain's "Harry Potter & Deathly Hallows: Afterword." It's a great review.**

**To wooftmnt, Thanks again for reviewing.**

"Get up, boy! I'm taking you to London."

Vernon slammed the door shut, but not before giving Harry a meaningful look. A look that said, 'Don't fuck about, boy.' Harry swallowed and got up.

"This is stupid," he muttered to himself as he pulled on his jacket. It was September 1. He pushed in the chair at his desk and ran a hand through his hair. Rain pounded lightly on his window. Harry sighed, pocketing his wand.

Reluctantly he stomped downstairs, passing Dudley, who had a particularly smug look on his face. A sharp elbow found its way into his ribs. "Move it, freak!"

Uncle Vernon was waiting by the door. "Go on, then, boy, get your trunk!"

"Alright, alright," Harry growled, throwing open the cupboard door. His trunk lay inside on his makeshift bed. He dragged it out.

He'd known today was the day. After all, he'd been dreading it all month. But for some reason Harry wanted to pretend that today wasn't that day. Perhaps it was a normal Tuesday, and Dudley was insisting on getting a sweetie. Perhaps they were just taking a trip around town. Harry thought about this as he dragged his trunk outside and lifted it into the boot.

Vernon came out a moment later to shut the boot and grab his ear. "No funny business, boy," he warned him, spitting into his face. "I don't want to hear even a peep out of you until we get to London, understand?"

"... Yes, Uncle Vernon."

"Not a word, I said! Now get in the car!" Harry stumbled into it, his hair and jacket soaked. He shivered and sulked.

x.x.x.

Two hours- HOURS- in the backseat with Dudley did nothing to improve his mood. Harry leaned against the car door and stared out the window dazedly. Soft music crackled from the speakers. And something kept poking his ribs, but as soon as Harry turned around, it was gone.

Dudley. Harry clenched his fists. How he hated him.

"Why aren't I going to school _now_?" Dudley whined as they entered the London outskirts. After two hours of hearing only the rain and soft, whick-whicking of the windshield wipers, Dudley's voice was sandpaper on his eardrums.

Vernon laughed from the driver's seat, shaking the car. "That excited, are you? Hold on, then, we only have to swing by King's Cross."

"But it's clear on the other side of London!" his fat cousin reasoned. "Why can't we go to Smeltings first! I want to see my friends!"

Harry held his tongue at that, but it was difficult.

"Yes, well..." Vernon trailed off. "You see, son, I want plenty of time to see you off. We'll, uh, stop by that bakery you like so much," his uncle added.

Dudley, appeased, sank back into the seat to stare at London. They could all see the clock tower atop King's Cross as it climbed higher and higher into their view. Harry ran a hand through his hair as Vernon turned his blinker on.

Before Harry had even pulled himself together he was already on the curb, watching Vernon peel back into traffic.

His insides stiffened with inevitability.

Harry pushed his trolley into the station like a man walking to the rope. Somehow he made it to Platform 9 3/4. Somehow.

"Harry!" Ron yelled, running towards him. "Harry!"

"Hey, Ron," he answered mildly. His tongue sat dead in his throat. He was going back to Hogwarts. There was nothing he could do. "How was your summer vacation?"

Ron gayly pushed his trolley along, his mouth tripping over the words. "Oh, blimey, it was fantastic! Charlie took the whole family to Romania! I came this close to a full-grown Norwegian Ridgeback!" Ron gestured with his hands. "You wouldn't believe how big they get! Norbert was there, he was already huge!"

"Wow." Harry tried to think of something else to say. "That's great, Ron," he offered lamely.

Ron nodded as they walked towards the barrier. "That's my sister," he pointed out nastily. "She's a first year this year. Can't even get through, see? I reckon mum will have to run in with her..."

Harry spotted a girl with flaming red hair. "I didn't know you had a sister."

Beside him Ron shrugged. "Not much to say about her, I'm afraid," he muttered. "Except she's got a huge crush on you. But I mean, you ARE Harry Potter!"

Harry swallowed. Yes. He was.

As they neared the nondescript brick wall, Harry watched on as Ginny and Mrs. Weasley ran through the barrier. Ron snorted. "Took her long enough. Ready?"

They ran as quickly as possible, and- BAM!

They hit the wall.

Wait, what?

Harry sat up, dazed, one leg trapped under his upended trolley. Underneath him Ron shifted and groaned. "Did you do that?" Ron demanded, as if he had.

"You went ahead of me," Harry pointed out, offering his friend a hand. Ron took it and scrambled to his feet. "We've got to hurry or the Express will leave without us." Perhaps he wasn't as alarmed by that as he should be.

"Christ, mate!" Ron grabbed his trolley and ran for the barrier again. It was, after all, quickly approaching 11 AM. Harry righted his trolley just as he heard another SMACK!

"WHAT THE HELL'S THE MATTER WITH THIS?" Ron demanded, kicking the brick wall.

Hope blossomed like a weed in Harry's heart. His thoughts churned. Perhaps this meant that neither of them could return to Hogwarts. Perhaps he wasn't a wizard anymore. Perhaps this was a sign.

"I don't think we're going to make it," he heard himself say as he glanced at his watch. One minute to go.

"How are we going to get to Hogwarts? Mum and Dad will kill me!" Ron whined, burying his head in his hands. His friend crumpled to the ground. "We have to get to Hogwarts, Harry! We have to! If Mum finds out we missed the train... Oh, what'll I do?"

"We can always live in London," he heard himself tell Ron. Ron looked up, surprised. "What I mean is, there are options."

Ron didn't take it as well. He shook his trolley, his face contorted in a nasty frown. "We're 12, Harry! 12! Have you gone round the twist?" Harry shrugged and looked away. 11:02.

"I know a way," he heard Ron say as if he was devising a new chess move. He grabbed Harry's arm. "Come on!"

Harry followed him out of King's Cross. Waiting on the curb was a clanky looking blue car, which Ron immediately threw his trunk into. "Give me yours," he told Harry, grabbing at his trunk. Harry let him have it. "Alright, come on. Before mum and dad come back!"

As he climbed in, he felt the car rumble beneath his feet.

"What are you doing!"

"Driving, obviously!" Ron stared at the wheel, his hands gripping it tightly. He looked white-knuckled and pale. Then he pumped a pedal and they rose into the air.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:**

**To JezeBelDK, Thanks again for reviewing. This is the chapter you suggested. I couldn't think of anything relevant to talk about, so it is mostly a slice of life.**

The car collided into the Whomping Willow. Harry's head hit the dashboard and he nearly threw up on impact. No more flying cars, he promised himself. He'd had quite enough of them.

"Ron?" he wheezed, shaking his friend.

In the driver's seat, Ron shook awake and looked around. Then he looked at his wand, which had snapped in half. "My wand!" he cried out. "My wand!"

The Whomping Willow groaned and punched one of its branches through the window. Ron yelped and leapt back, his foot hitting the accelerator.

"Get us out of here!"

"I'M TRYING!" He pumped the pedals a few more times but nothing happened. The Whomping Willow flung them to the ground.

"What'll we do?" Ron moaned, wincing as the Whomping Willow pummeled them.

There had to be a some law against trees killing people, Harry thought as the car was picked up and flung to the other side. He was going to die because of a tree! Or at least have serious injuries. The impact with the ground was far from pleasant and Harry did throw up.

Then the car started up on all its own and drove towards the castle battlements, where it flung them out. Harry fell onto the grass and clutched his stomach. "Urgh..."

"Look, Harry! The car's driving itself into the Forbidden Forest!"

"I don't care, Ron," he ground out, feeling another jump in his throat. His fingernails dug into the damp grass as he heaved.

He barely noticed when Ron came over to him. "That's disgusting," he heard him say.

It took a few minutes before he could stand. It felt like he'd been hit with a dozen Bludgers. His legs could barely hold him as Harry walked slowly to his trunk and sat down on it.

"Never drive again, Ron," he muttered, hanging his head.

Ron pat his back comfortingly. "Come on," he said after a while. "We've got to get to the feast!"

"Alright." Harry stood up and shrunk his trunk, which he placed in his pocket. Then he watched as Ron stared down at his broken wand and tried, rather pitifully, to shrink his own.

"Let me do it," Harry finally said, and shrunk it.

Ron pocketed it and shot Harry a grateful smile. "I'll have to tape this," he said self-depracatingly, holding up his wand.

They started for the castle.

x.x.x.

"Look! Who's that man over there?" Ron whispered, pointing towards the Head Table.

Harry couldn't see a thing, so he shoved Ron out of the way and pressed his eye into the crack. "Where?" Then he saw him. A blonde, trite man was smiling and waving at the students. Harry rolled his eyes and whispered, "Must be the new Defense professor. Where's Snape?"

"He's not there? Shove over, let me see." A second later he heard Ron quietly chuckle. "Maybe he left! Because he was turned down for the DADA position- again. He was so disappointed that he left!"

"Or perhaps," a dark voice said behind them, "he is waiting for two students who never got on the train?" A cold hand grabbed Harry's ear and yanked him backwards. "What have we here? A Potter, and a Weasley?" Snape hissed.

"Er," Ron squeaked.

x.x.x.

"You were spotted," Snape snarled, "by no less than _seven_ Muggles. Do you have any idea how serious this is?"

Ron squeaked and looked at his hands. Harry glanced between him and Snape.

"This breaks the Statute of Secrecy!" Snape ranted, waving a newspaper. "You two and your half-cooked, hare-brained scheme risked the exposure of our world! Not to mention," he added, "the damage inflicted on a Whomping Willow that has been on these grounds since before you were born!"

When he got started, there was really no stopping him. Harry sighed and tried to look regretful. He was regretful that he was in this room, after all.

"Honestly, Professor Snape, I think it did more damage to us!" Ron cried out.

"SILENCE!"

Right then, Ron looked as if he'd piss himself. Harry stared at him.

Snape hadn't lost any steam, however. He threw the paper down and shoved his face into theirs. "I assure you," Snape hissed. Harry felt spit hit his cheek. "If you were in Slytherin and your fate rested with me, you two would be on the train home tonight! As it is..."

"They are not," Dumbledore said from the doorway.

"Professor Dumbledore! Professor McGonagall!" He'd never been so happy to see them.

"Headmaster," Snape acknowledged. He pointed an accusing finger at them. "These boys have flouted the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, as well as the Interational Statute of Secrecy!"

"I'm well aware of our bylaws, Severus," Dumbledore said slowly, "having written a few of them myself." He looked at Snape over his half-rimmed spectacles. Harry watched as Snape reared his head back, silenced. "As Head of Gryffindor House, it is for Professor McGonagall to determine the appropriate action," Dumbledore continued, gesturing for McGonagall to step forward.

"We'll go and get our stuff then," Harry said, trying to keep the relief out of his voice. He was being expelled.

"What are you talking about, Mr. Potter?" McGonagall demanded.

"You're expelling us, aren't you?" Harry shrugged.

He'd go back to the Dursleys now. They wouldn't take the news well, but at least...

"Not today," McGonagall answered, bemused. Harry glanced at Ron, who up to now hadn't said a word. His friend shot him a small smile. Harry turned around, McGonagall's words slowly sinking in. "But I must impress on the both of you the seriousness of what you have done." He felt the room growing smaller. "I will be writing to your families tonight. And you will both receive detention."

Snape didn't look at all happy with that news. He glared at them, his jaw squared, and swept out of his office.

Meekly Ron stepped forward and asked her, "Professor McGonagall, do you know what House my sister was sorted into?"

x.x.x.

Disgust was his first reaction to the Defense classroom. Disgust, and a small bit of anger. It turned his stomach to see the rows and rows of framed, smiling photographs of Gilderoy Lockhart.

"This is amazing!" Hermione exclaimed, hurrying ahead of them. "His entire collection!" On one of the shelves, indeed, sat his entire works. Harry took one look and grimaced. He had a suspicion that Gilderoy _Lock_hart was going to be a handful.

"What's wrong with her?" Ron whispered.

"No idea," Harry replied, going straight to his seat to sit down. He sighed as the cool desk pressed against his cheek.

Harry didn't look up as other students began filing into the room. He could clearly hear that Hermione was still having her panic attack. She was telling Ron something ridiculous, like how Lockhart had defeated a pixie hoard with just one spell, and how he had changed the ways of cleaning and gardening forever. Some drivel that he really didn't want to listen to.

Harry only looked up when the office door slammed open and Ron shook his shoulder.

Someone above him arrogantly announced, "Let me introduce you to your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher... me! Gilderoy Lockhart!"

This was exactly the type of person he couldn't stand. Harry glared at the blonde man. Just then he wanted, overwhelmingly, to bring him down a few pegs.

"Order of Merlin, Third Class," Lockhart was saying as he flirted with a painting of himself. "Honorary member of the Dark Forces Defense League and five time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile award."

Harry rolled his eyes at the collective swoon of his female classmates. Did they really think that was interesting? The man sounded like a plumped up bag of flour.

"But I don't talk about that," Lockhart preened. "I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at him, after all!"

He couldn't take it anymore. Not knowing what else to do, Harry stared at the ceiling and tried to imagine himself elsewhere.

"Now, be warned! This world is full of dangerous creatures. The stuff of nightmares, the foulest creatures of wizardkind! And it is my job to arm you against them! You may find yourself facing your worst nightmares in this very room."

Next to him Ron gulped.

"Now as I understand it," Lockhart said slyly, his voice traveling around the room, "one of us here has already faced his worst nightmare! Well, two of us, if you count me..."

The voice stopped in front of him, and slowly Harry met Lockhart's gaze. "How fearless you are, Harry! Yes, what you have accomplished is impressive. You-Know-Who killed your parents and you fought him to the death! Everyone, stand up and give a round of applause to our own Harry Potter!"

No one stood up. There was a light smattering of applause, but it was drowned out by Draco Malfoy's howls of laughter. Harry stood up so fast he knocked his chair over. He didn't know what to say to Lockhart but he knew he wanted to say it very, very badly.

He opened his mouth but no words came out.

At first Lockhart seemed alarmed, then his expression changed. He grabbed Harry Potter and, standing in front of the class, exclaimed, "Know this: No harm will come to you while I, and Harry Potter, are here!"

Harry glared at the class, his vision darkening as he filled with anger. He wrenched himself out of Lockhart's grasp.

"Are you thick?" Harry heard himself yell. He scrambled for the words. "I've never done anything! And don't talk about my parents like that! They're the only reason I'm here. I don't even _know_ why you're here!" He grabbed his bag and swung it onto his shoulder, and ran out of class.

x.x.x.

"Harry!" He heard two sets of feet approaching him.

"What are you doing here?" Fred asked, sitting beside him on the bench. George sat down on his other side, sighing as a light breeze blew through the Quad.

Harry shrugged as he kept shredding a leaf into tiny, tiny pieces. "Don't want to go to class," he muttered.

"What class?"

"Potions?"

"Snape is a right bastard," George told him cheerfully.

"Lockhart," Harry corrected. "I can't stand him!"

Fred whistled. "Bit flamboyant, isn't he?"

"A right tosser, isn't he?" George said at the same time.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, not really listening. He brushed his hands off and leaned back. "I can't stand him. Couldn't even make it through one class."

Fred and George laughed. "Had him yesterday," Fred explained. "We nicked his pixies and replaced it with a boggart!"

"He screamed like a girl!" George cried out, laughing.

"Now we're working on something new..."

"It's top secret, though."

"Don't worry, Harry," Fred said comfortingly. "Just do what we do!"

"Torture him!"

They laughed and stood up, slapping each other on the back as they walked away. Harry ran a hand through his hair, his ears pounding with the new silence of the courtyard. He didn't know if he felt any better.

x.x.x.

The next day after Charms, Harry decided to walk by the lake. "I've got something to do. See you at lunch," he offered his friends before hurrying off.

The weather was fair. It usually was, until the sky dumped three feet of snow on the ground. Harry wandered towards a tree near the lake and sat down under it, hugging his legs.

He'd only been in school 4 days, but it felt like 4 centuries already. He really didn't know how he would survive a year of this.

If it got too bad, perhaps he'd simply get himself expelled. Harry sighed and stared at the lake, trying not to think about it.

x.x.x.

"We're going to answer my fan mail, Harry! Doesn't that sound fascinating?"

Although Lockhart shot him a winning smile, Harry could also see how tense he was. This wasn't going to be easy.

In front of Harry, Ron turned round and shrugged. "Look on the bright side, Harry. I've got to polish the trophy room." He gulped, nodding at Filch. "With him!"

Harry couldn't think of anything worse than that. He gave Ron a pitying smile before following Lockhart down the hall.

"Harry, Harry... I think we got off on the wrong foot the other day. I'm sure this will lighten your mood, though. Answering my fan mail doesn't even seem like punishment!"

A better word for it would be torture. Harry felt a headache coming on as they entered Lockhart's office and a tower of letters fell to the floor. It was about to be a long night.

"Oops!" Lockhart rushed over and began picking them up. "Mustn't let these get dirty, eh?" he said brightly, dumping them on a free chair. Harry didn't offer a hand.

"Well then, where were we? Oh yes! You, Harry, may sit there and write out the addresses of these very fine witches and wizards on these envelopes. Just pick up a letter, write down the address, and read the letter to me. And I will write my response. Doesn't that sound lovely?"

He couldn't say anything without being rude, so he kept his mouth shut and sat down.

"Dear Sir Gilderoy Lockhart," he read aloud slowly. He hadn't even started, but the letter was already nauseating. "Greetings from... Norway. Congratulations on the... er, Defense position. With your talent and, uh, ferocity? I am sure you will be Headmaster some day."

4 hours later, at midnight, Lockhart finally let him go. Harry dragged himself to the second floor lavatory to take a piss. It really was the worst night, he thought to himself as he washed his hands.

Then he heard it.

_Blood..._

It sounded very close, but when he turned off the faucet he heard nothing. The loo was empty. Harry shook his head and left.

x.x.x.

Well, the flu season started off with a bang. Harry lay in bed on October 1, grateful that he wasn't going to class. Then again, he wasn't going anywhere else either.

"It's a magical flu," Hermione explained as she stood over him. "You should go and see Madam Pomfrey. It's going to get really bad, Harry."

"Yeah," Ron agreed, nodding. "My brothers have had it, it's disgusting! The worst is when the phlegm hits..." He gagged. "Ugh."

"Thanks, Ron," Harry muttered, slapping his face with the pillow.

Hermione cleared her throat. "It's nearly class time," she told Ron who groaned and patted Harry's leg.

"We'd better hurry. Keep it together, mate," he encouraged. Then they were gone. Harry coughed and rolled over. He didn't mind being sick if it meant skipping Potions.

He lay there for a long time, not moving at all. Or trying his best not to. Then his stomach flipped over and he ran to the bathroom toilet, gripping the rim of it as he heaved. The thing, it didn't stop. He kept heaving... and heaving, even though there was nothing in his stomach. It was worse than Ron's slug attack last month.

No, that probably wasn't true. Harry leaned his head against the cold tile floor. Throwing up slugs was a lot worse.

"I'll kill you, Neville," he growled as he slowly sank into bed again. Neville had been hospitalised yesterday with flu, but not before he had sneezed all over Harry. He hated him.

Then his nose started running. No, no, not a runny nose. A fucking waterfall. Harry wiped it with a tissue and came back with his hands covered in mucus. "UGH!" Soon his whole bed was covered in a thin layer.

"I can't do this," he told the empty room. "I can't... fucking, do this." He gathered his sheets and began walking ever so slowly to the hospital wing.

x.x.x.

Flu season wasn't fun, and neither was the rest of October. Ron and Hermione were always on his case about doing things that Harry really did not want to do. He made up excuses at first, then he started telling them to shove off.

Harry got up as soon as he heard Ron's snoring and tip-toed to his trunk. They'd fought earlier that day, and he really did not want to have that talk at 1 AM. Silently he pulled out his invisibility cloak and swung it onto his shoulders.

"But mum," Ron whined fitfully as he turned over. Carefully Harry closed the drapes on his bed and snuck out of the tower.

It was better in the corridor. He could actually stretch out a bit. Harry wandered around until he found the Astronomy Tower, which he climbed up to look at the stars.

When he was bored of that, he started back down, down, down, until he came to the third floor. The Forbidden Corridor was still there and still locked. He opened it and wandered in.

It went deeper than he remembered. Perhaps it was even deeper than the dungeons. Harry followed the pathways he hadn't had a chance to see last year. Near the bottom there was even a great window facing directly into the lake. He could faintly hear singing.

Harry sighed and leaned against the wall. He was rather sleepy. Perhaps he should go back.

That's when he saw it, the Mirror of Erised. What the hell was it still doing here?

Half of him was afraid to look into it again. It had caused him a lot of trouble last time, he remembered clearly.

But Harry desperately wanted to see his parents. He cautiously approached the mirror. And there were his parents, smiling at him.

So the stone really was gone, Harry realised with a sigh of relief. And the mirror was just a mirror again.

Relieved, Harry closed his eyes as his mother patted his shoulder.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN:**

**Talk about plagiarism.**

He was almost... eager, to find the corpse of Mrs. Norris. Harry stared at the corpse dangling from the sconce, his heart beating fast.

'Finally...,' he thought to himself. A distraction.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED  
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR ... BEWARE

"You'll be next, Mudbloods," Malfoy told Hermione nastily.

"Is it really blood?" Ron asked. His voice broke on the words. Could it be? Harry reached up to touch it, and licked his fingers.

Yes. Blood.

"Move out the way! Move!" someone yelled from behind them, coming up fast. They emerged from the crowd of students. "What's going on here? Potter, what are you..." Filch hissed suspiciously. His eyes flitted over the scene.

Harry knew the exact moment, down to the very instant, that Filch realised the pathetic thing hanging nearby was his cat. He cried out. Harry was thrown to the ground as he grabbed Mrs. Norris and cradled her in his arms.

The rest of staff appeared out of nowhere.

"What is going on?" Dumbledore demanded. His mouth thinned as he took in the warning.

"He killed my cat!" Filch pointed an accusing finger at Harry. "HE KILLED MY CAT!"

A murmur ran through the gathered students. Filch pivoted around, grabbing Harry's robes. "I'll kill ya," he growled. "I'll kill ya..."

Dumbledore clapped his hands. "Everyone," he announced, "will return to their dormitories immediately. Everyone except... you three." He looked between Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Harry swallowed.

"She has not been killed, Argus..." Dumbledore squinted at the body. "Merely petrified."

"Ah, I thought so!" Lockhart cut in. "So unlucky I wasn't there. I know just the countercurse that could have..." He must have caught sight of McGonagall's withering gaze just then, because he immediately fell silent. Snape cleared his throat.

Ignoring them and moving towards Mrs. Norris, Dumbledore murmured, "How this happened... I cannot say."

Filch held Mrs. Norris protectively against his body. "It's him! It's him that's done it!" he growled, nodding his head at Harry. "You saw what he wrote on the wall."

Harry opened his mouth to deny it but Hermione beat him to it.

"He didn't do it," she reasoned. "Harry didn't even touch her!"

"Rubbish!"

"If I might, Headmaster..." Snape tilted his head. "Perhaps Potter and his friends were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

Harry glared at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Hermione and Ron exchanged looks.

"However," Snape continued, stalking towards them. "The circumstances are suspicious. I, for one, don't recall seeing Potter at dinner."

No, not at dinner. He'd been following that damned voice around like a fool... Harry glared at Snape as the other professors rounded on him. This man really, really pissed him off. He wouldn't mind getting him out of his hair.

And yet...

For the first time since he arrived, he wasn't _completely_ miserable.

"Ron and I were looking for him. We, er, found him in the library..." Hermione lied. It was a very bad lie, Harry noticed, wincing. "We'd just found him when he said..."

"Yes, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione looked like an animal caught in a trap. Her eyes darted to Harry.

Right. She wasn't finishing that sentence. Harry cleared his throat. "When I heard a voice," he finished.

Snape's head snapped up. Dumbledore and the others stared at Harry as if they'd never seen him before.

"He means, well he _means_ he heard some students talking," Hermione added. She gave Harry a sharp look.

"It was talking about killing, and blood."

Hermione stepped around him. "The students he heard, they must have seen Mrs. Norris before we did! They must have been talking about her. She does look rather dead."

"Oh, shut up, Hermione," Harry snapped, stepping in front of her. God, but she could be irritating. "I know what I heard. And I heard," he looked into Snape's eyes, "someone talking about killing. Right before we found Mrs. Norris."

He wasn't expecting the fuss that his statement caused. The entire staff gave him incredibly dour looks. Suddenly the air became stiff with suspicion and mistrust. Harry realised it was the worst thing he could have said.

"Forgive me, Ms. Granger, but it almost sounds like you yourself did not hear this voice..." Flitwick mused.

At this Dumbledore leapt into action. "Harry, if you don't mind. Please, accompany Professor Snape to his office. I will take Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley to mine. It's time we sort this entire thing out. Minerva..."

My cat has been petrified!" Filch shouted. "I want to see some punishment!"

"We will be able to cure her, Argus," Dumbledore soothed. "I understand that Madam Sprout has a very healthy growth of Mandrake. Once mature, a potion will be made to revive Mrs. Norris. And in the meantime... I strongly recommend caution, to all."

"This way, Potter." Snape grabbed his arm and dragged him down the hall. Harry had one last look at Ron and Hermione standing dumbfounded in the aftermath.

x.x.x.

"In," Snape ordered as he grasped the door to his office and pushed it inward. Harry went to sit nervously in a chair.

"Now tell me... What sort of voice did you imagine?"

"Well..." Harry tried to remember what the voice sounded like. "It was saying funny things," he remembered, "like, 'Let me rip you, let me... kill you.' I remember following it from the fourth floor to the second... But I lost it when Ron and Hermione bumped into me."

"And the source?" Snape asked tiredly. It almost sounded like he thought Harry was...

"I'm not lying, if that's what you think," Harry snapped. "It's not as if I wanted to hear voices! It's just happening, and I..." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not lying."

He stood up, pacing the room. The air in here suffocated him. As he paced, Harry's hand reached out and absently brushed against the cool glass vials along the shelves. Small comfort.

He heard Snape's irritation before the man even opened his mouth. "It seems to me, Mr. Potter, that you have an incredible gift for being at the epicenter of every catastrophe. Incredible... and impossible."

Harry glared at him. "I'm not looking for attention," he told him tightly. "I did hear a voice. I'm telling you this so you can handle it."

"Then tell me, why were you not at dinner?" Snape challenged.

Harry rubbed his eyes. "Look, I..." His tongue sat limply in his throat. Harry clenched his fists. "I wanted to be alone."

He watched Snape lean back, entirely disinterested. One greasy, black eyebrow twitched up as something cold and wet slid into Harry's stomach. Snape didn't believe him.

"I was looking for something," he admitted. "A mirror. It doesn't matter. I heard a voice, alright?"

He returned to pacing, burying his hands into his pockets. "It was like a whisper, I suppose. It was coming from the walls. And it kept talking about killing! Obviously I thought it was going to kill someone, so I followed it. Then I bumped into Ron and Hermione, and then we found Mrs. Norris."

"A whisper, you say?"

When Harry turned around, he saw Snape leaning forward. "Yeah," Harry continued. "It was like a whisper, or perhaps an incantation. Do you think a spectre did this? Do you think it's a haunting?" He didn't say that these were his first conclusions, when he had heard the voice over a month ago.

"It is unlikely, though not impossible." Snape leaned forward, tracking Harry with his eyes. "This... voice you heard, it may have experience with killing. We must assume the worst."

Well, obviously. Harry thought about Mrs. Norris hanging limply against the wall. Would it be a real body next time?

"The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware," he chanted under his breath as he examined a jar of bird's eyes. It made no sense. He set the jar down.

"What is the Chamber of Secrets?" Harry asked, turning around.

"Do I look like an encyclopaedia, Potter?" the Potions Master snapped as he scribbled something down.

Then Snape sighed, a long-suffering sigh, and set down the quill. He looked pained. "I assume you've learned about the Four Founders of Hogwarts," he started slowly. "Many would claim that Salazar Slytherin refused Muggle-born in his House and school... And they are correct. Slytherin House was originally designed to teach Pure-bloods their family magic. It was a dying branch of magic, even then.

"Unfortunately Godric _Gryffindor _drove Salazar out of the school soon after the Founding. An old grudge."

Snape picked up his quill again but Harry noticed how it quivered in his hand. "Legend speaks of a secret library Salazar kept in the school, hidden in the Chamber of Secrets. It contains... priceless knowledge... Not that I'd expect you to understand the gravity of its worth, Potter. Only the heir of Salazar could find and defeat the monster who guards it."

"Oh." Harry sat down again, feeling uncomfortable. "What about Muggle-borns? Malfoy said it was after Muggle-borns."

"If it is, someone else is controlling it."

Snape paused.

"What?" Harry demanded. "What is it?"

"Think, Potter!" Harry watched as Snape leapt up and pulled a book down from a shelf. "Why would a monster, who has lain dormant for centuries, suddenly strike? And," he snorted, "I highly doubt a monster wrote that pathetic threat."

Snape dismissed him a second later, but as Harry walked down the corridor, Snape called him back. "If you learn anything, Potter, inform me immediately. Lives are at stake."

x.x.x.

For a long time afterward Harry sat in the Gryffindor common room, his mind spinning.

He didn't even hear the portrait hole open and close, revealing Ron and Hermione. They came to sit with him.

"Harry! I thought Snape would keep you all night!" Ron exclaimed, patting him on the back.

"So did I," Harry replied noncommittally. He looked between them, taking in their sour expressions. "How was it with Dumbledore?"

Next to him Hermione pulled out her _Hogwarts: a History_ to skim angrily through it. Ron glanced at her and shrugged. "He asked a lot of questions. He wanted to know if we'd heard the voices, and Hermione told him that we had. I think he knew we were lying. So what happened with Snape! It was awful, right?"

No, it wasn't all bad. But how could he say that to his friends? So instead he said, "Yeah," and let out a short laugh. "It was horrible."

The air grew thicker around them as Hermione continued browsing her book, not even looking up. Ron grimaced. "Well, at least he let you off early. Dumbledore had us up and down those halls like bloodhounds."

Harry nodded comfortingly. Then they both turned around to look at Hermione, who ignored them and remained resolutely silent. Ron and Harry exchanged looks.

"Yeah, well," Harry awkwardly gathered himself. "I'm going up to bed now... I'm exhausted."

He started up the stairs to the dorms but Hermione was quicker. She slammed her book closed and snapped, "It was a bad idea to tell them you were hearing voices, Harry! Even in the wizarding world, that's not good!"

Somehow he knew this was coming. Harry whirled around, his blood pounding in his ears. "Really, Hermione? You want to talk about taboo at a time like this? They needed to know!"

"And now they think you're a freak, Harry!" Hermione retorted. "They won't take you seriously anymore!"

"I don't care!" Well, perhaps a little. "Stop trying to solve things on your own, Hermione!"

That shut them up. Harry examined their slack faces. "Don't you even remember last year?" he asked quietly. "I murdered a professor. Ron got stabbed by a queen, and you, Hermione, you could have poisoned yourself! I'm not doing that again," he announced, shaking his head. "I'm done with that."

"Professor Quirrell? But he was evil!" Ron shook his head.

"It doesn't matter. I killed him. We entered the Forbidden Corridor alone without telling anyone, and that's what happened. And then Dumbledore awarded us points for it! I don't want to live with that anymore."

Everyone was quiet for a long minute, until Hermione said, "Why did you tell them you could hear voices, then?"

"Because I did hear a voice, Hermione. And I don't know what that means."

He ran up the stairs before Hermione could say anything else.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN:**

**To myfoodisnotshared and JezeBelDK, Thanks again for reviewing. I've tried to take your advice, and hopefully you will see that starting this chapter. Let me know if I succeed. To myfoodisnotshared, it has been particularly tricky!**

**To pinkofthenight, Nice username. Thanks babe.**

The next day, despite the fact that it was Sunday, Harry awoke early. He certainly didn't want to see Ron and Hermione today, let alone talk to them about everything. Or anything. So he hurried to get dressed and, forgetting breakfast, headed into the crisp November morning.

Outside it was cold. More than cold, it was frigid. Harry's teeth chattered as he trekked to the pitch. Gradually his nose began running and he wiped it on the inside of his hood. If he got sick again, from _this_...

It would be the icing on the cake if he got sick twice in two months. Harry's grip on his broom tightened. No, he wasn't going to. He was going to enjoy himself... for once.

After how empty the castle had been, he was expecting the pitch to be just as empty. But as Harry reached the shed to fetch a snitch, he saw someone else flying. He didn't realise how much that pissed him off until they landed in front of him, holding out their hand.

Harry stared at it until it dropped.

"Potter," the boy greeted. "What brings you out?"

"You know who I am?" he asked sharply.

The boy, brown hair and grey eyes, lifted an eyebrow. "I'm not daft," he retorted. "Everyone knows who you are."

Nothing else could have pissed him off more. Harry stared at the boy, hardly knowing what to say. It was a mistake to come here, he decided, even if he had wanted to fly. Why was he even here?

"Do you know who I am?" the boy asked as if Harry should know.

"No," Harry said flatly.

"No, you wouldn't. About the only who doesn't." The boy sighed and looked behind him, at the pitch. Harry heard the frozen grass crunch under his feet as he shifted. "Cedric Diggory."

There was only one House this git could be in. "A Slytherin," Harry finished for him.

"It's true, then. You are conceited," Diggory spat. "But I don't have to be in Slytherin to figure that out, Potter."

"You what?" he growled, immediately hating Cedric Diggory. He hated him and he didn't know quite why.

"I have the pitch for the next hour and half," Diggory said coldly, staring him down. "Unless you're part of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, get lost."

Harry glared at Diggory as the boy walked to the middle of the pitch and kicked off.

"I hate this school!" he yelled, and threw the snitch at the ground as hard as he could.

x.x.x.

Harry almost couldn't believe it when, that Thursday, he found Hermione sucking up to Lockhart after class.

Well, almost. A part of him had been expecting it ever since the first day, when she had slobbered all over Lockhart. He'd gotten used to these nasty little surprises from her. And so he watched her out of the corner of his eye as he threw his books into his bag.

Wait, she was getting his autograph?!

The classroom door rattled as Harry slammed it behind him. Fuck her, he decided as he marched down the corridor.

"Harry!" someone was calling him. He didn't bother turning around, he already knew who it was.

"Harry!" A thin hand grabbed his arm and spun him round. "What is your problem?" Hermione demanded, her hair bushing around her pinched face. He was surprised at how angry she looked.

"What?" he asked, clenching his fists. "And don't touch me again," he added.

Hermione looked ready to explode. "You don't talk to me all week! And then you act as if _you're_ the one being scorned?" She punched his shoulder. "I hate you!" she choked, and ran down the corridor.

Harry stared after her, feeling like a git for reasons he could not understand.

x.x.x.

Things had gone from bad to worse by Saturday. During the Quidditch match with Slytherin, a rogue bludger had nearly killed him. Thankfully someone had destroyed it right before it had...

"Harry! HARRY!" Hermione yelled as she flew to his side.

Harry dropped the snitch and clutched his arm. "I think it's broken," he told her worriedly. They looked at each other, and it struck Harry that this was his best friend. Hermione Granger. Even if they were fighting, she would still help him. Strangely, that hurt to think about.

He glanced away just in time to see something bright and blue skidding up next to him. As Harry turned round he met the eyes of Gilderoy Lockhart, who looked rather too pleased with himself for beating everyone.

"Not to worry, Harry," Lockhart announced. "I'll fix that arm of yours straightaway!"

Harry stared at him. "Not you," he said quickly.

"You don't know what you're saying," Lockhart glanced at the people around them. "Now, this is... here..." He jerked up Harry's sleeve, sending a shooting pain up his arm. Harry hissed. "Brackium emendo!"

Nearby someone cried out in shock. Well, he could understand why. Harry watched, dumbfounded, as Hermione grabbed his arm and shook it, sloshing it around like pudding. This couldn't be happening.

He heard Hermione, Hagrid, and Lockhart arguing over him, but he really didn't care anymore. Harry poked his wrist and it wobbled again. No, this wasn't happening. He struggled to stand and nearly fell back down, before someone grabbed his arm to hoist him up. Ron. Harry nodded at him and staggered towards the castle.

"Harry! What are you doing!" Hermione cried out, hurrying up to him. She had that same look of intent and worry, but he... Harry didn't feel like looking at her right then.

"What does it look like?" he asked, irritated. "Going to the hospital wing!" He marched up the path.

As he walked, Harry heard Hagrid bellow something behind him. Lockhart gave a smart retort.

"They're really going at it, aren't they," Ron mused, looking back. Hermione rolled her eyes as she held Harry's arm. Which Harry supposed he was grateful for, as otherwise his hand would slap him as he walked.

Awkwardly, Ron cleared his throat again. "You think this is bad now," he told Harry brightly, "but did you see Malfoy's face when he hit the grass? Priceless!"

Harry shot him a dark look as they entered the castle. Ron shrugged. "Sacrifices, Harry."

Then why was he the only one sacrificing anything?

Harry scowled and quickened his pace to the hospital wing. He really didn't care when Hermione huffed and let go of his hand. He didn't need friends like that.

x.x.x.

It was dark. Harry stared at the frozen face of Colin Creevey, his stiff hands still wrapped around an invisible camera. The pale moonlight cast a strange sheen on his skin, making him look... dead. Gently, Harry reached out and poked the boy's face.

God, that was creepy.

"I should have known you were only _feigning_ sleep."

Snape.

Harry whipped around, his head snapping to the darkened doorway of the hospital wing. Even knowing where he was, Harry could barely see the outline of Snape's robes. He squinted at the shadows.

"Where did you find him?" Earlier, neither Dumbledore nor McGonagall had said. They had rushed in and rushed out as if being pursued by a ghost, and Harry had not gleaned much information.

"Coincidentally," Snape said, as if it was no coincidence at all, "he was on his way here."

Harry glanced down at the stiff, surprised. "I didn't tell him to come," he muttered defensively.

He heard Snape's soft snort of disbelief.

"When will you brew the potion, Professor?" he asked, examining Colin's face again. It was distinctly cold and pale, yet somehow soft. He'd never seen a dead body before but he imagined it would be a lot like this.

Snape cleared his throat and approached him. "The mandrakes will be ready in 6 months," he said frankly. "Not everything is instantaneous, Potter."

"That's ridiculous!" He sucked his teeth. "School will be over in 6 months!"

Even by moonlight Harry could see how Snape rolled his eyes. "I would not expect you to understand the delicate art of potions brewing, Potter."

Understand? No, he probably wouldn't. Harry stared down at Colin Creevey, trying to forget how much he wanted to understand. Slowly Harry became aware of the pounding in his arm as the bones grew back, and how much he wanted to wallow over it and cry. A clock ticked nearby.

Reluctantly, Snape began talking. "The Headmaster is curious if you have heard any voices since Halloween."

"I haven't." Harry's eyes wandered round the cold hospital wing. "Not even tonight," he murmured to the empty beds.

Black eyes drilled holes into his neck. Harry defiantly met them.

"Has anything unusual happened?"

"No." It sounded like a lie, even to himself. But he wasn't lying! Nothing had happened. Sometimes he felt insane, not knowing what the hell was going on. The Chamber of Secrets? A monster that could petrify someone? Harry wandered back to his bed and sat down.

"Do you know whose blood was written on the wall?" he wheedled the Potions Master.

"It doesn't work that way, Potter," Snape replied, annoyed. Too annoyed. Harry realised that Snape had already tried analysing it.

He debated whether he should say anything else. But as the silence grew between them, his mouth started moving before his brain did. "The way it was written..." He trailed off, remembering so clearly in his mind the night he found Filch's cat. The writing on the wall had looked nothing like his own handwriting, which sprawled across his parchments like a clumsy watermark. He thought about the feet upon feet of scrolls that Hermione wrote.

"It was written very carefully," he murmured, forgetting who he was talking to. "It was..." He searched for the right word. "Very pretty."

Then the train of thought ended and Harry blinked. He shivered as the cool night air sank into his pajamas and slid down his spine.

Snape was giving him a strange look.

"I'm patrolling tonight," Snape scowled. "Get to sleep, Potter."


	7. Chapter 7

The dry spell with Ron and Hermione lasted a while. While it was happening Harry didn't like to think about it, and when it was over, he really didn't notice. Suddenly they were talking to him again. At meals, in class, in the common room.

Things didn't feel so lonely yet somehow, they still were.

Ron was telling him about Quidditch when McGonagall passed by them. She hushed the entire table and announced clearly, "Who all here is staying at school for the holidays?"

Harry knew this was coming. It was exactly two weeks from end of term, after all. Still, he had made a point of generally not thinking about it. His fingers tapped restlessly on the table as McGonagall went around.

Ron gave him a wary look. "Hey, Harry," he said slowly. "Do you want to, eh... Come over to the Burrow this year?"

The suggestion washed over him like water. Stay in the wizarding world? Not a chance.

"No offense, Ron," Harry replied, "but I'd rather go home."

He had a sinking feeling when McGonagall looked at him and shook her head. "No word yet, Mr. Potter," she told him discreetly. Harry clenched his fork in his hands.

Hermione nervously cleared her throat. "Well, I always spend Christmas with my parents," she told them.

It was the wrong thing to say and everyone knew it. Ron's eyes popped. "Really, Hermione?" Harry snapped. "You have to bring that up at a time like this?"

They all knew how rocky things had been. That was probably why Hermione grabbed Harry's hand and started apologising, even though she probably didn't know why. He yanked his hand away and mumbled, "Forget it."

How could you miss someone you never knew? Harry wondered. He could stare at his photo album for hours but and feel nothing, but one comment and he was off the bend. What was wrong with him?

"I've got to go," Harry said, grabbing his bag and stalking out.

At the doors to the Great Hall he ran into a Gryffindor and toppled to the floor. "Watch where you're going," he growled, which was an obvious mistake because the boy was much taller and could have pummeled him. Harry scrambled to his feet and ran out.

x.x.x.

Over the next week Harry tried not to think about the monster guarding the Chamber of Secrets, or Colin Creevey's lifeless body. Thoughts came to him in the middle of class, or as he ate, but he pushed them away. He wanted to be normal. He _needed_ to be normal.

Winter had set in like a dull ache. Harry curled by the window, one hand touching the freezing glass as he listened to his bedmates sleep. For some reason he wanted to slam his fist against that glass.

x.x.x.

"Aren't you excited for the dueling club?" Hermione asked Ron excitedly over dinner. "We're going to actually see spells we know, being used practically!"

Harry snorted as he stabbed a potato. "Of course _you're_ excited," he muttered nastily. Both of his friends ignored him.

"D'you think Lockhart will debone someone's arm, or something equally bad?" Ron laughed.

"Ron! Don't talk with your mouth full," Hermione hissed, completely scandalised.

He'd been hearing about this damned dueling club all day and he was growing sick of it. Harry pushed around his vegetables.

"It's sure to be interesting!" George piped up from a few seats away.

Ron glanced at his brother suspiciously. "Why is that?" he demanded.

"Because we've insured it!" Fred piped up. The twins laughed wickedly and high-fived. This time, Harry looked up, just in time to catch them winking at him. Without preamble, they jerked their thumbs behind them, at the Head Table.

"What? What are you pointing at?" Ron asked, craning his neck.

Harry looked but he couldn't tell either. Lockhart was calmly chewing on his roll as he regaled Flitwick with a tale of his... superiority. Harry observed him closely but nothing was unusual. He was his usual, arrogant self.

Harry violently speared another potato, his fork grating on the plate.

"Table manners, Potter," someone said snidely behind him. Harry jerked around in time to see Snape raising an eyebrow at him. "Mr. and Mr. Weasley," he acknowledged, giving a rare nod to Fred and George. Then he swept off.

"You didn't," Hermione whispered.

"Didn't what?" Ron squawked. "Didn't what?"

Fred and George stood up. "Think what you like. We'll never tell," they yelled and ran off in the same direction Snape had just gone. Harry hid a smile behind his hands.

Ron spat out his potatoes. "Since when have they been chums with Snape?" he choked.

x.x.x.

The dueling club, as it was, was set for Thursday after dinner. It was set only four days before holidays, and Harry was in a rather chipper mood. He'd survived half the school year. And starting in exactly one week, he was going back to the Dursleys'.

As soon as they wrote back, he added bitterly. They still hadn't granted permission to McGonagall. But...

They would, of course. They wanted him to be normal.

Harry smiled at Hermione as they worked on their Transfigurations essay. "Hey, Hermione," he asked, clearing his throat, "d'you want to play a game of Wizard's chess?"

She looked at him as if he were an alien.

"I mean," he added, "after we finish up here."

Still, that same look. "Uh, alright, Harry," she said awkwardly, and fiddled with her quill. "That sounds fun."

x.x.x.

"Gather round!" Lockhart shouted, jumping onto the dueling platform. "Gather round!"

Harry shoved his way towards the platform, which was now in the center of the Great Hall. His elbow slammed into someone's ribs as he fought his way to the front. "Ow! Hey!"

Finally, he thought to himself as he pressed his hands onto the stage. He was at the very end, so the view wasn't perfect, but things rarely are. He had a nice shot of Lockhart's latest robes, which were flashy and ostentatious. "Excellent," he heard Lockhart say as he stopped directly in front of him.

He really could go on and on. Harry waited, his heart pounding. Is this what Fred and George were up to?

"Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape!"

Everyone fell silent and pressed forward. Harry could see Snape at the other end of the stage, a foul look on his face. Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing. Fred and George really did deliver... Snape was better than any revenge he could think up for Lockhart.

"Brilliant!" Ron whispered as he sucked on a piece of candy.

"He has sportingly agreed to help with a small demonstration!"

"Small? The whole school is here!"

Harry snorted at Ron. "None of the other professors would agree to this," he whispered back.

They laughed quietly as Snape and Lockhart assumed their positions.

"Look! Now they're going to bow to each other!"

"Shut up, Hermione," Ron snapped.

Harry watched Snape, trying to memorise his movements. The man was slow... mockingly slow. "EXPELLIARMUS!"

Lockhart should have blocked it easily, instead he was thrown to the end of the platform. If he'd reached out, Harry could have touched his leg. Lockhart scrambled to his feet.

Brilliant.

He couldn't help his smile when Hermione gasped and asked, "Do you think he's alright?"

"Who cares?" Ron asked, slapping Harry on the back.

"He should have used Protego," Hermione muttered, frowning.

Lockhart absolutely lost it. He tossed his hair back, sweaty and nervous. "No offense, Professor Snape, but it was pretty obvious what you were about to do," he snapped, glaring at Snape.

Snape cut him down with a few choice words. It was better than Christmas. Harry snorted cruelly, feeling very unlike himself. How many times had Snape cut _him_ down? It was nice to see the dog set on someone else, for a change.

Suddenly everyone around him took a step back and Harry looked up to find a wand in his face. "...a, uh, volunteer," Lockhart said, smiling. There was a strange look in the professor's eyes as he stared at Harry.

He was pulled on stage. Harry struggled against the hands hoisting him, and when they dropped him, he shoved Lockhart back. "Stop it," he growled. "I didn't volunteer!"

The game was not funny anymore.

Lockhart grabbed his shoulders and turned him around. "Ten points from Gryffindor for misconduct," he scolded. "Now, another volunteer! Mr. Weasley!"

"You'll be sending Potter to the hospital wing," Snape said from down the platform. As Harry was turned forcefully around, he saw Snape's face clearly for the first time. He wore a smirk as he raised one eyebrow at Potter.

There was no escape. Harry glanced around, feeling too many eyes on him. Lockhart, the git, stepped back from the platform as Malfoy stepped up.

Why was it always him?

Harry clenched his fists around his wand. He did not look at Ron or Hermione, who were probably looking at him with the most frightened expressions. They knew when to back off, but apparently no one else did. Harry glared at Malfoy.

"Assume the position," Lockhart reminded him from faraway. Blood pounded in his ears as Harry stalked towards Malfoy.

"Wands at the ready."

Malfoy smirked. "Scared, Potter?" he taunted.

No, that was the opposite of what he was. He wanted to kill Draco Malfoy. He wanted to smash his skull between his fists.

Harry watched as Malfoy's smirk slowly slid off his face. Good, he wasn't completely stupid. Harry turned on his heel and walked to the end of the platform. With every step his heart beat faster. He was going to make Malfoy cry. He wasn't going to hide up trees anymore.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN:**

**To delenda est c, Thanks again for reviewing.**

**To myfoodisnotshared, Cliffhangers. Gotta love em. I agree that Harry Potter had a lot of anger in canon. 5th year is also a great example of that. Thanks for keeping up with this.**

"On the count of three, cast your charms to disarm your opponent. _Only_," Lockhart stressed, "to disarm."

"One..."

"Two..."

"Everte Statum!" Malfoy shouted.

"Protego!"

Malfoy's spell fizzled against his shield. "Everte Statum!" Harry shouted back at Malfoy, flicking his wand.

Malfoy tripped and crumpled to the floor.

Someone was laughing. It filled Harry's head like a freight train. As Snape threw Malfoy back on his feet, Harry was already raising his wand.

"Tarantallegra!" Malfoy cried out.

"PROTEGO!" Harry shouted, snapping his wand down.

"Serpensortia!"

A long, black snake slithered onto the dueling platform. As it sped towards him Harry's lungs froze as he remembered that day at the zoo. How Dudley had pushed him to the ground. How the snake had slithered past. He stared at the snake on the stage, mesmerized, and it stared back at him.

"Attack him," Harry ordered, pointing his wand at Malfoy. The snake licked the air, its eyes wide and black.

"Attack him!"

Swaying, it turned to hiss at its summoner. "ATTACK HIM!" Harry yelled at it. He didn't feel like himself. His legs moved forward and his wand hand lifted threateningly.

"Don't move, Mr. Malfoy," Snape ordered, advancing on it. "I'll take care of it for you. Vipera evanesca!"

The snake disappeared. Harry looked at the spot where it had been, his ears buzzing. Snape was staring at him.

Well, to be fair, everyone was staring at him. Harry growled and ran off-stage.

x.x.x.

Later that day Harry sat by the fire in the common room, staring moodily into the flames.

"There you are," Hermione said, huffing relief. "Why did you just run off, Harry?"

He decided he didn't know. He really didn't know anything, aside from the fact that his life was going to hell in a handbasket.

Ron and Hermione collapsed into the chairs next to him. "Harry?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he finally muttered, glaring at the fireplace.

Ron tapped impatiently on the chessboard by the fire. "This is completely mental," he said darkly.

"Ron!" Hermione sighed and grabbed Harry's hand. "It's not you, Harry. It's just strange, alright, and we are very," she stuttered, "c-confused."

"What are you talking about!" Ron snapped. He pointed at Harry. "It _is_ him! He's gone round the twist!"

Harry yanked his hand out of Hermione's and jerked forward. "What? All of a sudden you have a problem with me beating Malfoy? You ate slugs because of him!"

Like a match to petrol, Ron shoved his chair back and leapt to his feet. "If you're going to act like a Slytherin, and talk like a Slytherin, and, and, throw your friends away like a Slytherin, then go be one! I don't care anymore! I'll get some new bloody friends up here and _you_," he said, shaking, "can drink piss!"

"Fuck you!" Harry shouted at Ron's back, watching him storm off.

Hermione looked between them. "Harry..." she trailed off, pursing her lips. "I've got to go," she finally said, and ran out the portrait hole after Ron.

x.x.x.

The whole school was talking.

Harry heard snippets of it on the way to class, while he was eating, in the common room, on the Quidditch pitch. He never _stopped_ hearing about it, but somehow the conversation died as soon as he came closer. It was painful. It was embarrassing.

One more day. Then, he could forget about this entire mess.

Harry rubbed his eyes at he sat at the Gryffindor table, hating the smell of bacon that he could not escape. He wanted to vomit.

"Mr. Potter," McGonagall announced from behind him. Harry jumped at her voice. "We need to discuss your holiday plans. Come to my office after lunch." She swept off.

This weekend passed more slowly than any he could remember. Harry dragged his feet around the castle until it was lunchtime. Then he knocked on McGonagall's door.

"Come in, Mr. Potter. Have a seat."

She finished writing something on a scroll and looked at him with a thin mouth. "Mr. Potter," she began, folding her hands, "I have heard from your relatives. They've requested that you remain at Hogwarts this holiday."

When he didn't answer, she picked up her quill and set it down again. She looked sympathetic. "You are not the only one, I assure you. There will be other students here. And I-"

"I told you they don't like owls," he said dazedly. "They're afraid of them."

"I sent a letter by post," McGonagall corrected shortly. "And they sent a reply. It arrived this morning."

"You must have read it wrong," he vouched, feeling a headache coming on.

Seeing no win, the professor sighed and passed over an envelope. The seal had been broken. Harry slipped his fingers inside to fish out the letter.

_Don't send the boy back here_

"If you can provide proof of your relatives' acquiescence then I will of course send you home, Mr. Potter. As it stands however, I cannot allow you to leave this school."

"They'd never send this!" he snarled, throwing the letter down and throwing himself out the door.

x.x.x.

The next day Harry watched as the Hogwarts Express pulled out of Hogsmeade. Hagrid stood beside him, patting him on the back.

Ron and Hermione were going back to their families. To their doting parents, christmas trees, ornaments, presents, and love. He wasn't jealous. He was pissed off.

When the train was out of sight, Hagrid lumbered towards the castle. "Cuppa, 'Arry?" he asked to the still figure behind him. Harry waved him off and sat on the tracks, his palms pressed against the cool rail.

Would he stay at Hogwarts until summer? The question dug into his bones. Did he have a choice?

As Harry gripped the rail in his hands, he thought about how awful his life had suddenly become. Awful, and unbearable. He stood up and, ignoring the snow slowly blurring his glasses, began marching back to the castle.

Soon he was knee deep in snow. It covered Hogwarts like a prison.

x.x.x.

Harry wandered the corridors, around and around, for the rest of the day. He stopped by the Great Hall at dinner, only because his stomach was in knots, and afterwards he went straight up to bed. He lay there for a long time.

He couldn't tell which was worse: everyone calling him a Slytherin, or no one calling him anything at all.

The next morning, when the sun hit the windows, Harry was up and dressed. He re-arranged his trunk. He, bloody hell, he took a shower! He never did that in the morning. And then he sat by the common room fire, his insides stewing.

The corridors were silent. Only rarely did he hear the clipped shoes of a professor, walking about nearby. Only some of the professors showed up for meals. And there were hardly any students left, and none from Gryffindor. Well, except Harry.

He was going out of his fucking mind.

x.x.x.

Somehow, Harry ended up back on the second floor, staring at a blank wall. He tried to imagine that night with Mrs. Norris. He remembered clearly, how loopy the message was. Not figuratively loopy, but...

Harry sighed and touched the wall.

When he lifted his hand back, it was normal. It was still his hand. Harry shoved it in his pocket and walked back the way he'd come.

As he rounded the corner, something smacked him in the chest. Harry fell on his arse as someone snapped, "Clumsy as ever, Potter."

Snape.

"Didn't see you there," he grumbled, picking himself up. He hadn't talked to Snape since the dueling club disaster. Somehow, he regretted that the stalemate hadn't lasted longer.

"10 points from Gryffindor," Snape said off-handedly, as if he were talking about the weather.

Harry glared at him. "It's not as if you didn't knock into me," he pointed out. "And you can't take points over the holidays."

"Have you tested that theory?" asked Snape, raising an eyebrow. "100 points from Gryffindor," he said to the air.

"You haven't _done_ anything," Harry insisted, but still, he glanced around uneasily.

The Potions Master picked at something on his coat. "Perhaps, perhaps not. Some of us have better things to do than test vapid theories, Potter..." He stepped around him and strolled down the corridor.

"Bastard," Harry growled at him, but he said it very, very quietly.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN:**

**Busy past few weeks. Should settle down in a couple of days, then I can write more. **

**Got some great advice from my father. He pointed out that children handle problems and frustrations in very unique ways, ways that may surprise adults. I've thought a lot about that, and I am hoping to implement his advice. Not sure how. Can't say yet because honestly, children terrify me.**

Harry didn't know when, or why he found himself in the library every day. He only left when he was hungry or when he woke up with his cheek stuck to the pages.

There was one phrase he looked for: "The Chamber of Secrets."

Only six books mentioned it, and only one talked about it. That's why Harry found himself knocking on Snape's office door at three in the afternoon, feeling vaguely irritated.

"Enter."

He threw _Hogwarts: a History_ down on Snape's desk and glared at him. Snape gave a long-suffering sigh.

"How do you even know it's a library?" Harry demanded. "It says nothing like that anywhere!"

Snape leaned back and steepled his fingers.

"You're trying to lie, then, is that it?" Harry went on, unable to stop himself. "You're trying to make Salazar Slytherin out to be a Muggle-loving _faery_? Well, he's obviously not, and..."

Snape raised his eyebrow. "Are you quite through?"

Harry didn't say anything. He didn't need to, he'd said it all. So he sat down and crossed his arms, waiting.

"I never claimed that Salazar Slytherin was a _faery_, although I wouldn't dispute that." Snape casually picked up _Hogwarts: a History_ and thumbed the pages. "Salazar Slytherin had ideas. In his time, those ideas were not so radical. Do you know who wrote this book, Potter?"

Harry shook his head.

"Bathilda Bagshot," Snape said, sneering around the name. He tossed the book back on the desk. "The woman is a crone. And unfortunately, her books educate half the school."

Cautiously Harry reached for the book and flipped to the title page. "Bathilda Bagshot," he read carefully. "This book isn't even 200 years old," he added, surprised.

Snape, meanwhile, was sorting through some books on his desk. "If you want to know about Salazar Slytherin, Potter, then don't read something written by a Hufflepuff. They might excel at gathering information, but they are not known for interpreting it."

Ugly, slender hands wrapped themselves around a strange tome. Harry watched as Snape reverently opened it.

There were pages missing, blackened at the spine. "Was that burned?"

Across the desk Snape looked up and narrowed his eyes. "You will find," Snape muttered, "that Slytherins often have the most valuable information... and the most trouble relinquishing it."

Whatever it was he was looking for, he found it. Snape tapped his fingers on a page. "Look here, Potter," he commanded, turning the book around.

It was older than he'd thought. Harry took one look at the dull pages and archaic handwriting and knew that he'd never seen a book like this. "I can't read it," he finally admitted.

Disgusted, Snape snatched the tome back. "Nevertheless, it confirms what I have already told you. The library is real, and someone has just lifted the cryopreservation spell."

x.x.x.

Somehow, on his way back to Gryffindor tower, he found himself wandering the entire castle. Who would even want to lift a preservation spell? And who would want to read books _that_ old? They were completely out-dated.

"Hey, Potter," someone shouted behind him. Harry turned round to meet the voice, feeling sick as reality slapped him.

"Can't go home for hols? I'd wager his parents can't stand having a Slytherin around," the boy taunted, an ugly smile spreading across his face.

His friend next to him snorted. "They'd really _die_ if they found out!"

"Yea," Harry said humorlessly, "that's a great joke." He willed his feet to continue up the stairs but they didn't move, and so he stared at the boys, his body cold.

"You're a freak, Potter," the second boy pointed out.

_You're a freak, boy!_

As if he wasn't aware.

The first one glanced daringly at his friend and stepped forward. "You haven't got a-"

"What is going on here?" a throaty voice demanded. He'd recognise that voice anywhere, but Harry did not turn around to greet her. "Mr. Gibbs, Mr. Quigley, you are very far away from the Hufflepuff dormitories."

"Yes, professor."

"Yes, Professor McGonagall."

"Mr. Potter, in my office." She gestured towards the door just down the corridor, and Harry followed her through it without a backward glance.

Her office was as clean and impersonal as ever. Harry sat in a chair, his back stiff, gripping his hands.

"What is it, professor?" he asked tightly.

McGonagall cleared her throat. "There have been some concerns about the letter I received from your relatives," McGonagall informed him. She had that concerned look that he had always hated... A mixture of pity and something less gentle.

"I have informed the Headmaster. He is none too pleased with the idea of sending you home for summer holidays. And I must agree."

"I can't..." He tried to wrap his mind around the words. "I can't go _home_?"

McGonagall leaned forward to look at him. "That is what your relatives have requested," she said.

_They brought you here, they can damn well take you back!_

Harry looked around the small office, feeling light-headed. No one should receive bad news twice in one week. It was almost Christmas, for god sake. He rubbed his eyes. Was this really happening?

"I quit," he told the painting hanging on the wall.

"What was that?"

"I said," he repeated numbly, "I quit. I quit this school! Send me home."

"Mr. Potter..." Her voice carried a warning.

Suddenly he was not sitting, he was standing. "Hogwarts," he told her, slapping his hand on her desk, "is tearing my family apart! It's this school!" He pulled out his wand and shook it. "It's this! It's this damned magic!"

"Settle down," she barked.

"NO!" he shouted. "Send me home! I can't bear to be here a second longer!"

That's when she stunned him.

x.x.x.

He awoke in the hospital wing.

It was frightfully quiet. Harry felt his ears prickle with disuse. There was no wind against the panes and no click of heels on the floor. If he'd held his breath, he might have heard only his heart, beating rapidly.

Slowly he shifted his feet out of bed and onto the floor. A silent scream passed through him as he met the still, vacant eyes of Colin Creevey, staring at the pillow he'd just been laying on.

Had he gone insane? It felt like it.

"I'm leaving," he whispered shakily to the corpse. "I can't stand this place."

Holding himself, he got up and left the wing behind him.

x.x.x.

The corridors were just as empty. Harry made it to the dorms without running into anyone, and that unnerved him. Had everyone gone and evacuated the school? Had they left him?

He tried not to think about it as he dressed and packed his trunk up.

"Oh, come on," he snapped as his shaking hands dropped a well of ink. It spilled across the floor. He stooped down to pick it up, ink soaking into his thin hospital pajamas. No, he didn't have time.

After pocketing his trunk, and changing, he headed for the Entrance Hall.

He was leaving. He was really, finally leaving.

It was easy to ignore the wetness on his cheeks as snow drifted into his hair and face. Harder to ignore the snow that covered his knees, making every step an acrobatic maneuver.

He would get to the Forbidden Forest, Harry promised himself. There were trees there and bare ground. It would be easier.

His teeth clattered and his legs went numb.

"I need out of here," Harry scolded his body, his failing body, his worthless body.

"'Arry!"

For a moment he didn't think the voice was real. Had he fallen in the snow? Was this actually a hallucination? Then he saw Hagrid, lumbering towards him. A monster in a nightmare that just wouldn't end. Harry stared at him, rooted to the spot.

"'No need to come out here, 'Arry! I'd uh-seen you at the Feast in a mo'ment." A large hand slapped him on the back.

"Feast?" he asked bitterly.

Hagrid roared. "Fergo' about Christmas, have ya? Yer pullin' my leg!"

"Right. Right, the Feast." Harry swallowed, his trunk heavy in his pocket. "I was just coming to look for you," he lied. "Everyone else was already there."

"Well, c'mon then! 'M not getting any younger," the older man said heartily, leading the way back to the castle. Back _there_. Even with half his body in snow, numb, Harry could feel its fortresses looming over him.

He had to be smart, he scolded himself as the Forbidden Forest faded behind him. He had to be cunning.

"n' I could hardly see 'em, you know," Hagrid was telling him. "Had to build this fence 'fore winter set in. Meddlin' foxes, off for more'n they can fit between them teeth. Nice fellas, though, once you get to know them. But meddlin' creatures."

"What did foxes ever do to you?" Harry snapped as they stepped onto the path.

"Killed my roosters, they did! 'Nother one just disappeared. Haven' seen it all week, god rest its soul."

The warm air of the castle tingled as it hit him. Harry touched his frozen, tingling cheeks as Hagrid pulled the door shut.

"Happy Christmas, 'Arry," Hagrid said jovially as he marched into the Great Hall.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN:**

**To delenda est c and alexma, Thanks for reviewing. I've been working on some of my older stories, so sadly this has taken a back-burner. To assuage you I'm posting everything I have written (that's satisfactory). I ended up scrapping an entire chapter, which was not easy, and I'm still recovering.**

"Sit down, 'Arry, sit down 'ere," Hagrid called, forcing a chair between a Ravenclaw and Flitwick. Harry tried to pretend he hadn't seen the two Ravenclaws talking as he settled between them.

If someone had asked him what the hell he was doing here, Harry wouldn't have had an answer. He stared at the half-eaten turkey, thwarted and brooding.

It was bloody Christmas! Why did he have to be _here_?

He couldn't help but think of his family. Somewhere in southern England, the Dursleys were setting down to a turkey of their own. It mightn't be as glazed, or as golden, but that was normal. The presents under the tree mightn't be as prettily wrapped, but they meant something. Decorations. Carolers at the door. He hadn't been there since he started Hogwarts, but he could still hear the singing in his head.

Here, there was the clattering of plates and the vaguest smell of bodies. If only he had stayed in the hospital wing. If only he hadn't run into Hagrid!

"You look positively chilled to the bone, Mr. Potter," Flitwick said kindly, flicking his wand. Immediately Harry felt a bit better... but just a bit.

"T-Thanks, Professor Flitwick," he stuttered, picking up his plate. "I, uh, I see some mash over there," he added, scooting out of his chair and walking to the other end of the Head Table. He settled himself in a chair at the end, next to Hagrid and across from Snape and Lockhart. It was the only other empty seat.

"'Arry?" Hagrid turned to him, surprised.

"Harry! Harry, my boy! Can't stand being away from civil conversation, eh?" Lockhart asked amusedly. "We were just discussing my second best-seller, _Gadding with Ghouls_. You'll find this interesting."

Snape sighed, leaning away from Lockhart. "I realise, Mr. Potter," he hissed, "that being among your peers must be a strenuous task, but it cannot be more strenuous than your presence is on us."

"Severus!" McGonagall snapped from Lockhart's other side. "You may as well learn how to be civil. Mr. Potter, how are you feeling?"

It was a cheap distraction. "Fine," Harry said, dumping a load of mash on his plate. When he didn't go on, McGonagall turned away.

"Anyway," Lockhart managed, breaking the silence. "I wrote _Gadding with Ghouls_ because I was convinced that the more exposed I was, the better for my career, but the trouble was, you see, I-"

"Oh, for pity's sake," Snape snapped, intimidating Lockhart into silence.

Hagrid passed a basket of rolls to Snape. "Not to worry, profess'r, they be lighting up th' tree soon 'nough."

"And passing around _gifts_," Snape snarled, spitting out the word. He ignored the proffered rolls and stood up, brushing off his coat. "I am not leaving, Minerva," he growled at the heavy look of warning. Then, black, billowing robes swept off. Harry looked after him silently.

"So, Harry!" Lockhart held up a lifter and carving knife. "Two slices of turkey, or three, would you say?"

"Two," Harry conceded, his voice rough from the snow. He held out his plate.

"Roll?" Large hands delicately placed a roll on Harry's plate, and he nodded his thanks. Harry ate quietly as Lockhart told them of his forays in Africa and Syria. Beside him, Hagrid leaned forward with fascination.

Harry sat on his hands until he couldn't bear it anymore.

"May I be excused from the table?" He quietly asked McGonagall, who turned to him with surprise. She nodded stiffly and Harry stood up, stretching his legs. It was a short walk down to the Slytherin house table where Snape was playing chess alone.

His long, greasy hair fell over his eyes as he stared at the board. Harry sat down in front of him, ignoring the huge, unlit tree behind him with a pile of gifts underneath. It was at least three hours until midnight, he knew.

The board was hard to read. As he examined it, Harry had the sense that the game went right over his head.

"The black queen?" he suggested.

Snape didn't even spare him a glance. "It is white's move," he snapped distractedly, pressing limp hair out of his eyes.

"Oh."

Harry fiddled with the pieces that lay broken on the side. A rook had been halved. Numerous pawns. Harry picked up the remnants of a bishop, turning it over and over in his hands.

"A fox is around," he told the silent man. "Hagrid said that some of his roosters have gone missing."

"Riveting." Snape ordered his white knight to attack a pawn.

"I can't imagine a fox wandering around here," Harry admitted as he stared at the board. "I've never seen one."

"It's hungry, Potter," Snape said bluntly, cutting down the white knight.

It made sense. The middle of winter, a hungry fox, killing a meal. Harry scratched his nose. "I'd imagine a lot of animals are hungry," he commented absently.

"'Arry! It's about time for dessert!"

As Harry stood up, thinking of the trunk in his pocket and the long celebration ahead, and tapped his finger once on the chess board. "Look out for this bishop," he said. Snape snorted and did not look up.

x.x.x.

Christmas was on a Friday. On Saturday and Sunday, Harry lay in his bed, clothed, his trunk carelessly expanded at the foot of his bed. He couldn't stand to look at it.

When his hunger became too painful, he nipped off to the kitchen for a bite. Then he dragged himself back to bed and lay as still as humanly possible, swathed underneath his blankets.

He wasn't going home. He didn't even _have_ one anymore.

He should have run away properly. Now he didn't know what would happen to him! Would he be submitted to a boy's home? Or would he be set loose on the streets? Perhaps he'd have to live like a feral boy. Harry shivered and closed his eyes.

x.x.x.

The library was the only place he'd go. Honestly, it made no sense. He had never been a fan of books. At times he had read Petunia's 50 pence romance novels in his cupboard, by flashlight. When his eyelids grew heavy, he would hide the book under his mattress and nod off, the scenes running through his mind like a soft, fictional blanket.

Then, in the morning, reality would awaken him like ice water.

Now that he was at Hogwarts, reading was different. It was a requirement for class. It was nothing like Petunia's dusty bookshelf. It was research. And it was a chore.

Finding anything mentioning the Chamber of Secrets proved an even harder chore. Harry had grown tired of it, but what else was he going to do? Other research? As if he _wanted_ to do his assignments. Harry sighed, pacing the shelves.

"I've never seen a fox before," he mumbled curiously as he ran his hands along the book spines. He never had, not even at the zoo.

No doubt Dudley had, though, his mind supplied bitterly. His cousin always got everything he wanted. Everything. A brand new, fire engine red bike flashed through his mind.

Frowning, Harry turned around and made his way to the magical creatures section. Perhaps they had illustrations.

x.x.x.

It was another week before everyone came back from holidays. On the Friday before, two days before they came, Harry again sat in the Great Hall, surrounded by his professors, toasting the New Year. No one could dredge up much enthusiasm for it.

"Professor Sprout!" Harry called out, running out of the Great Hall after her.

She turned to meet him with a soft, unfamiliar smile. "Harry Potter," she acknowledged. "Do you need help with an assignment?"

"Er, no," he admitted. "I need to talk to you."

"I'm on my way to the greenhouses. Come along, Mr. Potter."

They walked in silence. It wasn't a short walk by any means. As he matched her pace Harry fiddled with a bit of loose thread on his sweater. Their footsteps echoed on the stone floor.

Outside was better. It was a short distance into the snow, which had been shoveled, and then they were surrounded by balmy, sweaty, green foliage. Harry rubbed his glasses on his pants before looking around.

"Here," Professor Sprout said, handing him a pair of gloves.

Harry awkwardly tucked his hands into them, just in time to catch the pot she handed him. "What are we..."

"Replanting. Take these," Sprout said, handing him a stack of large pots. "Fill the bottom with rocks and two thumbs of soil. Rocks first, then soil," she added absently.

It quickly turned into an assembly line, although he really had no idea what they were planting. It was a leafy plant with absolutely no interesting allure about it. Harry had seen similar things in Petunia's garden.

"How is Mr. Longbottom these days?" Sprout asked after a while, taking a pot he'd just finished.

"I, uh, I think he's fine," Harry muttered. Who cared? "He's with his grandmother right now, I think."

Sprout nodded sadly, and for some reason, looked away. "What's this about, Mr. Potter? It's not about your homework, then?"

"No, it's not." He cleared his throat and pulled off the gloves. "How are the mandrakes doing?"

"Well, they certainly aren't enjoying puberty," she murmured, turning back with a strange look. "Acne," she explained.

"How soon are they ready?" Harry pressed.

Sprout's eyes glazed over as she squinted at the mandrakes, sitting on a table in the corner. Then she nodded definitively. "May, I'd estimate," she said precisely.

"May!" Harry reeled at the answer. "Can't you buy mandrake at an apothecary?"

Instead of answering him, Sprout patted his arm. "Is this about the boy who was petrified? He's in your year, isn't he?"

"No, not my year," Harry snapped. "A year below me. And his name is Colin, Colin Creevey."

"It's a shame about him. Petrification. Hard to brew the cure," Sprout murmured, shaking her head. "Not to worry, Mr. Potter, he'll be right as rain soon enough."

"He's missed Christmas!" Harry burst out. "That's not alright! I'm sure his parents wanted him home!"

"And no doubt his brother," Sprout added. "There is really no rushing this, I'm sorry, boy. Know that he is in capable of hands."

"Yea," Harry said bitterly. He slapped the gloves on the table. "I've got to go."

**AN:**

**Right, I just remembered. If anyone is into one-shots, I've written one. It took about 30 minutes. That's what I hate about one-shots... So shallow and easy. But if you need something to tide you over, there you go.**


	11. Chapter 11

**AN:**

**You know when you're writing, and for a moment you just stare at the screen and think, "Oh man, this is fucked." Yea. Welcome to the past three weeks of my life.**

As Hogwarts grew more lively, so did Harry Potter's meandering.

Come Sunday afternoon, there was a distinct rise in noise around the castle. Hundreds of feet thumped through the Entrance Hall and down the corridors. Voices reverberated off walls. There were trunks and clothes all over the dorm rooms, and suddenly, Harry couldn't walk two steps without someone clobbering him.

He was quickly driven to the library. Honestly, he was just sick of being knocked over.

Harry stayed there for a long time, his backside aching as he sat in the hard chairs, reading. He read about Salazar Slytherin. This time, though, he made sure not to read anything by Bathilda Bagshot.

At 6, he made the long slog to the Great Hall.

Christmas was the only topic at the tables. People went to France. People got this or that. Harry barely heard a squeak in his direction as he chewed on a roll. And it felt good. Somehow he'd gone from being the most interesting gossip at Hogwarts, to the least noticed person in the room.

Harry sighed. The silence had been nice, though.

"Anyone up for a round of Exploding Snap?" Fred and George howled, holding up brand-new packs of cards. A few people grabbed for them. "Tsk tsk. 2 Galleons each!"

"That's outrageous!" Ron yelled. Harry was close enough to hear Ron mutter to Dean, "You do NOT want to play that game..." But the redhead never looked his way.

After dinner, Harry followed the long procession of Gryffindors to the tower. There was a new password, "Wattlebird." Harry tucked it into the back of his mind as he stood awkwardly in the common room, looking around.

By the fire, Ron and Dean were playing an enthusiastic game of chess. Hermione was curled up nearby, nose in a book. No one even glanced his way as Harry stood by the portrait hole, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

At one point Ron did glance up, and Harry nearly waved. Then he realised that Ron wasn't even looking at him. After a few awful minutes Harry turned round and crawled back out the portrait hole.

His legs felt like concrete. He heaved a sigh.

Why was he even here?

Slowly, Harry dragged himself back to the library. It was the only place he could think to go.

x.x.x.

The next day, Harry awoke with a sore neck and a bad mood. He rubbed his neck as he sat up, scowling.

Then, reality hit him like an overnight express.

He awoke alone.

There was no sound of trunks being slammed open and closed. Gone were the friendly shouts from the night before.

He was alone. The thought wasn't as comforting as it might have been a week ago.

Harry scrambled for his wand and shakily cast a Tempus spell. 10:42AM. His heart climbed into his throat. He stumbled out of bed and into the loo. No one had woken him.

Every nerve ending buzzed as he pulled on his robes. He felt like throwing up. He needed to pee again. The room spun as Harry grabbed his bag, and he fled the room, feeling sick.

He didn't stop as he ran from the seventh floor to the dungeons. It was exhausting, and he didn't remember most of the journey. By the time he saw the Potions classroom door, Harry couldn't breathe and his hair was stuck to his forehead. With a stomachful of dread, he knocked on the heavy iron door.

x.x.x.

"Detention tonight, Potter," Snape growled as Harry pushed through the door, clutching his bag. He couldn't see much around the enormous balloon of classmates, but he was sure he saw a glimpse of long, bushy-

"Hermione!"

There, over there. He ran under someone's arm and past the gold-plated knight and he saw her, hugging her Potions book and wearing a look of surprise.

"Hermione, wait," he called again, out of breath, stumbling up to her.

For what it was worth, she looked at him. Their eyes met for the first time in two weeks.

She must have taken in his crumpled shirt and unwashed hair because she looked bewildered and guilty as hell. And she should, Harry thought cruelly.

"Sorry, but I'm late for-"

"We need to talk."

"Sorry?" She looked around, down the empty dungeon corridors and down, down at her watch. Before she could make another excuse, Harry dragged her to an empty brewing room.

"I nearly missed Potions," he told her bluntly. "No one even woke me."

Hermione wouldn't look at him. "Perhaps if you set an alarm, or..."

"Hermione!" He grabbed her arm. "Look at me!"

Finally she looked up again. He could tell that she was going to cry.

"I'm sorry," she whispered miserably, hugging her book tightly to her chest. "We can't talk anymore, I'm sorry, it's the way it has to be and I..."

"What are you talking about?" Harry snapped. His mind struggled to keep up. "We can't talk anymore? We're friends!"

"I know, and I want us to be friends! But this whole business with the Chamber of Secrets... My parents said that it's too dangerous! They want me to stay away from you, at least until..." Hermione wiped at her eyes. "It's too dangerous right now, Harry," she said, her voice stronger now.

A lead pipe lodged itself in his throat. Harry swallowed and looked away. He could barely hear her voice over the buzzing in his ears.

"And Ron's parents think the same," Hermione went on. "It's strange but last year, everything that happened was connected to you. I nearly drank poison and Ron, he got stabbed by a giant queen! Who knows what could happen this year? Everyone is saying that you're the heir. What if you are?"

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "That's it, then?" He choked. "We can't be friends anymore? Ron's not my friend?"

"It's just for now, Harry," Hermione promised. It sounded hollow even to his own ears.

Something inside him snapped. "I thought you wanted to figure this out! You were the ones going on and on about figuring this out..." He clenched his fist and hit it, hard, against the stone wall. Then he hit it again, and swiped the area with his palm. It didn't look damaged at all. But his fist ached.

"I have to go," Hermione finally said, pushing past him. He heard the door click.

x.x.x.

The next attack happened later that week. This time, it was Justin Fitch-Fetchley and Nearly Headless Nick who were petrified. Harry snuck to the hospital wing that night to stare at their frightened, empty faces. Nearly Headless Nick floated solemnly.

A little while later, he found himself in Snape's office.

"I heard about Justin and Nearly Headless Nick," he announced lamely as he collapsed in a chair. Snape didn't bother looking up.

Without the barbarous threats to keep him on his toes, Harry settled in. "I found out from McGonagall." He ran a hand through his hair. "No one would tell me what happened because they think I did it."

Still, Snape did not look up. He seemed completely unaffected. It pissed Harry off, and he was tempted to jump up and shake the man. Instead, he did nothing.

"Do you think I'm the heir?" Harry asked instead as he got up to pace the office.

"To your family's fortune? Undoubtedly."

"I mean," Harry said, picking his words off the floor, "am I the heir to Slytherin?"

"No."

The answer was plain and quick. Harry looked at Snape, and dark, unfathomable eyes looked back at him.

"People," he admitted, swallowing, "have been saying that I'm a Slytherin."

Snape looked absolutely uninterested. "If only the Dark Lord knew, all it takes is a few simple rumors to... unhinge you."

Undeterred, Harry added, "They say that I'm the heir."

He heard a snort aimed in his direction. "Any self-respecting Slytherin would not hold stock in the whispered lies of children," Snape snarked. "You are a Gryffindor, through and through."

That pissed him off, but he didn't let it show. "I'm the only one who can speak to snakes, aren't I?" he shot back.

He was about to say something else but Snape knocked back his chair and stood up. "Leave," the man barked. He looked ready to draw his wand and kill something.

Harry grabbed his book and fled. Still, he was convinced.

x.x.x.

The next day, he sat in the library, pouring over tomes upon tomes of Slytherin history. Still, none of them were written by a Slytherin. Harry wondered bitterly if anything in this library was written by a Slytherin, or if they had all been burned, like Snape's book. He buried his face in his hands.

"I have often felt the exact same way, Harry," a kind voice commented dryly.

The headmaster smiled leisurely down at him. "What have we here?" he murmured, picking up one of the books. "Ah, Slytherin. A very mysterious House, as I trust you've discovered."

Harry nodded miserably. "There's nothing useful in these books at all," he exclaimed, shoving the one he was holding away from him. Unshed tears clouded his eyes as he stared down and clenched his fists.

A wrinkled hand patted Harry's shoulder. "There, there. Help is always given at Hogwarts. All you must do is ask." The old man sat down and carefully closed the upended book. "Perhaps Professor Snape may be able to offer some assistance."

"I seriously doubt that," Harry snapped. "I tried to tell him about..." This time, he looked sidelong at the headmaster. "I've been looking into the Chamber of Secrets," he admitted bitterly. "But no matter what I tell Professor Snape, it's like I'm talking to a brick wall!"

"I know it can seem that way," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. "A hard man to know. I find myself frequently troubled by him, quite recently even." He looked at Harry over his half-moon spectacles. "He's been taken by some peculiar ideas about who might be leaving messages on walls. Perhaps you know a bit about that."

Harry's brow furrowed and he looked away.

"Ah," Dumbledore murmured, tapping the spine of a book. "This has been sorted wrong. A common error, that." Slowly Dumbledore stood up and moved down the aisle. He stopped at a shelf Harry had never noticed. "Here we are," he murmured as he slipped the book onto the shelf.

For a second Harry thought Dumbledore would come back, but instead the old man smiled and waved his hand. "It takes a true bibliophile to find anything in this!" he called good-naturedly, as he left.

Harry stayed in the library long after the fool in purple robes had disappeared.

**AN:**

******To Jess, If I read a story like mine, I would be frustrated as well. The truth is, I have suffered abuse, and reading about some 13 year old nancy's take on it tends to piss me off. That's not what I was going for here. Still, it's very similar to the other generic crap I see. I appreciate reviews like yours that bring me back to reality. Thank you.**


	12. Chapter 12

**AN:**

**To Babywolfchick1142, Thank you. I'm not the kind of person to censor my thoughts when I think a story is bad, or good, and I appreciate honest reviews. Since I read your review, I've been working hard to pull out the next two chapters. Thanks again for your words.**

**To delenda est c, It's always good to hear from you.**

His backside was numb by the time Harry decided to leave. He yawned and gathered the books in his hands to put away. They were all useless, so there was no point in checking them out. He put them away as carelessly as notes in a bag.

Still, his fingers brushed against the titles. Would he find something extraordinary? Something that would explain... everything? One could dream. Like all the other times, Harry found nothing, so he picked up his bag and left.

On his way, he brushed past Dumbledore's bookshelf. His book sat there, innocently enough. Harry stared at it, wondering if he should take it back to its original shelf. That's when he saw it.

_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_

With a practiced hand, Harry grabbed it and fanned the pages.

_Fwooper. Manticore. Nundu. Runespoor. Werewolf._

His eyes lingered over the runespoor. Slowly, Harry flipped to the front page again. _Ashwinder. Basilisk._

He snapped the book shut and held it close to his chest.

Finally, a breakthrough.

x.x.x.

"I CAN TALK TO SNAKES!" he practically shouted in Snape's face.

The older man pressed his lips together sourly. "10 points from Gyffindor. Collect yourself, boy," he growled warningly.

"Right." He'd meant it to sound contrite, but excitement overtook him. "I can talk to snakes! Whatever monster is protecting Salazar's library, it's got to be a snake. I can kill it! I can command it, and," he added, showing the book in his hand, "tell it to stop. Isn't this brilliant? Look here, this one's called a basilisk! It can kill things with just its eyes!"

Snape did not move.

"It fits! No one has died yet, but then, no one looked into its eyes directly! See, there was Colin Creevey, and he always carries around that blasted camera. There was Justin and Nearly Headless Nick. Justin must have looked through Nearly Headless Nick. And this," Harry added, flipping through, "says that the basilisk's mortal weakness is a rooster's crow. That's why all the roosters are turning up dead!" Harry pushed the book towards Snape, panting, his cheeks flushed.

Perhaps he hadn't realised it when he came into the office, but Snape was in a foul mood. He picked up Harry's book with the deft hands of a viper.

"What am I going to do with this, Potter?" he hissed, shaking the book in the air. "You've found information not worth the pages it was written on!" Harry flinched as the books hit the desk with a smack. Snape leaned over him, a huge bat with a twisted mouth.

Harry shivered as he met his gaze.

"Is that the best you can do, Potter?" Snape pinched his nose and gave a frightful bark. "You want to kill a basilisk by begging it to stop! Oh, yes. Another brilliant campaign from the Boy Who Lived."

"It could work," he snapped.

"And how would you expect to command a monster?" Snape hissed, losing his patience.

"Parseltongue, obviously! It can't be that difficult," Harry retorted, crossing his arms.

"As I'm sure you have gleaned from your vast experience with basilisks, Potter!" Snape's words cut into him like a knife. Harry stared at him.

After a moment, Snape seemed to calm. "_Killing_, as it were, isn't even the most pressing issue with your proposal. It is remarkable, to me, how short-sighted and..."

Snape grabbed _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them _and practically ripped the book in half as he sifted through it.

A second later, he thrust the book into Harry's face. A grotesque illustration of a basilisk swam in front of his eyes. "Do you have any inkling what a Class 5 creature is, you fool?"

"It means it's lethal."

"Another inadequate answer," Snape noted coldly. "It means that this creature is a recognised killer of wizards. Not only that, Potter, but it cannot be domesticated! It is nigh impossible to kill! You would arrogantly name yourself its master? Whoever is controlling this monster, is obviously-"

The rest of the sentence never came. Harry's mind stumbled over the silence.

Snape was staring at him with darkening eyes, a perverse statue in the cold office. Silence filled the room like water.

"What?" He finally demanded.

Snape's teeth clacked together, and his eyes flitted around the room. "Get out, Potter," he ordered.

Unwilling to stick around, Harry shot out of the chair, into the corridor, and up to Gryffindor tower. He didn't dawdle.

x.x.x.

The mystery continued, as they say. Harry watched his classmates very closely, suspecting everyone, his mind never far from what Snape had said.

_Almost_ said, really, but he knew what he'd been about to say. Whoever was commanding the basilisk, was a monster themselves.

And, like all monsters, they'd show their true colours eventually.

_Possible enemies:  
Draco Malfoy  
_

After a moment Harry thoughtfully wrote down, _Ron Weasley_. It certainly was possible. Who better to suspect than the one person you trusted more than anything, who abandoned you at a critical time and joined up with the town crier?

He also wrote down, _Seamus Finnigan._

Then again, the writing on the wall had reminded him of Hermione's. He'd always suspected it was a girl, even though he didn't know any girls very well. Harry wrote down _Hermione Granger _and underlined her name, twice.

"What's this you're writing in? A diary?"

A sly hand snaked out and plucked Harry's notebook out of his hands. "Hey!" he shouted, lunging for it, but Seamus was quicker.

"Ron, catch!"

Playing Quidditch with his brothers must have done him some good, because Ron easily caught it. Then Dean ripped it out of his hands.

"What's it say, Dean?"

"Hey! Give that back!" Harry lunged across the table, but Dean only leaned back with a nasty grin. "Possible enemies," he bellowed, catching everyone's attention. Then, Dean's smile turned into a frown. He hoisted the book in the air. "Oi, Ron! It's got your name in here!"

"My name!" Ron squinted at the book, his face turning bright red. He rounded on Harry. "What're you going to do to me, you freak?"

Harry looked at Ron's twisted face, and looked back at his notebook. "Give it here, Dean!"

"Your name's in it, too, Seamus!"

"What in bloody Christ!" Somehow, Seamus wrapped his hands around the book, ripping some pages in his haste. "What's this mean, Potter?" he demanded after he read the page. "You're going to leave us in the Chamber or something?" A growl came from Harry's throat.

"STOP THIS AT ONCE!"

Surprisingly enough, it wasn't his voice that rang out. Harry looked up to find McGonagall swooping down on them, looking very sour. "Now what is this meaning of this?" she demanded, looking between them. "Mr. Weasley, explain what's happened here."

Harry set his jaw and glared at Ron. "Don't you dare take their side!" he whispered.

"I-It was nothing, really," Ron started, flushing. "Seamus just wanted to poke a bit of fun, to see what Harry was writing. Then we read it, and..." He swallowed and glanced at Seamus, who nodded. "He wants to kill us, you know!"

"Nonsense. Let me see that notebook."

Seamus, who had been clutching it like a lifeline, quickly handed it over.

As McGonagall's eyes scanned the page, Harry dug his nails into his palms. Traitor. His entire body was on fire, his nerves buzzing as he watched McGonagall's face harden.

"Mr. Potter." With two words, the throaty, collected voice grew a nasty edge. "Accompany me to my office. The rest of you, get back to lunch. And I don't want to hear another peep from any one of you."

The entire Hall quieted as Harry followed McGonagall out. As they walked to her office, Harry glanced back at the table, where Ron sat, glaring at him. He fiercely glared back.

x.x.x.

"I think it best if you tell me _exactly_ what is going on here," McGonagall said bluntly, folding her hands together.

"Professor, I know what you're thinking!" Harry burst out. "But it wasn't my fault, I swear! Dean, Seamus, RON- all three of them, they've been trying to get back at me for ages. They've been planning this. I've been framed!"

"I don't believe that for a moment, Mr. Potter," McGonagall snipped.

"Of course_ you_ wouldn't," he said bitterly, grinding his teeth.

"And what," McGonagall demanded, "do you mean by that, Mr. Potter?"

Harry crossed his arms over his chest. Then, he uncrossed them and rubbed his eyes. "I heard them in the library," he said sadly, trying to force as much emotion into his voice as possible. "They absolutely hate me now."

For all her Gryffindor ways, she wasn't having any of it. "Tell me, then: Did Mr. Thomas or Mr. Finnigan make you write this? Mr. Weasley?" Harry frowned. "I suspected as much. You are not here because of what transpired at lunch, but rather," McGonagall tapped the ripped page, "the contents of this notebook."

That quickly deflated him. Harry sat down, feeling like a frog staring down a scalpel. "Professor Snape can explain everything," he told her flatly. "He'll clear this all up."

McGonagall's lips pressed together in a thin line. "Let's not bother Professor Snape with Gryffindor squabbles." She tapped the notebook again. "Explain this, Potter."

How was it possible that a nitwit like Malfoy could weasel his way out of anything? Harry clenched his fists, feeling his nails dig into his arms. "You wouldn't understand."

"'Possible enemies,'" she read aloud. "A concerning title. Is there more in this notebook I should hear about?"

"STOP TOUCHING IT!"

He grabbed for it, but McGonagall held it back. "10 points from Gryffindor for misconduct. Settle down, child!"

The room, somehow, became even smaller. The air around him shrunk. Harry sat down on his hands, scowling and blushing, his foot tapping impatiently on the floor. "You wouldn't understand, even if I told you! If you just summoned Professor Snape," he said again, more urgently this time.

"Is Professor Snape your Head of House?" McGonagall snapped, and Harry clenched his fists again. "Whatever it is that he knows, you'd do well to inform me of now! Do you understand the seriousness of this?"

Harry glared at her hardening eyes and thin, thin lips.

The lie was quick and thoughtless. "I'm the Heir to Slytherin," Harry ground out, his heart pounding.


	13. Chapter 13

**AN:**

**To WL Chastain, Thanks for reviewing. I am trying to avoid the usual clichés for HP, one of which is hurrying into major character developments. Another cliché is telling instead of showing. Harry Potter is going through troubling changes and desires, that will continue to warp him from the stereotypical Gryffindor. Perhaps I should push it more in subsequent chapters. However, if you aren't satisfied with my pacing or what you are reading, by all means, quit while you are ahead.**

How word got around Hogwarts so quickly, he couldn't figure.

As Harry was escorted to the Headmaster's office, he passed probably every single person in the school. They whispered amongst each other as they stared at him, filling the stone corridor with noise and heat.

"Oh, dear," he heard McGonagall murmur as she escorted him. Harry squared his shoulders and kept walking. He saw no familiar faces.

They eventually reached the gargoyle. Compared to the hallways, the staircase to the Headmaster's was a crypt: stale, silent, and suffocating. Was this really happening? It was like a dream, or a nightmare. Harry stared dazedly ahead as McGonagall knocked on the office door.

"I trust you know what this is about, Albus?"

"Yes, yes," Dumbledore chuckled. "Word does travel quickly here." He looked down at Harry. "You've caused quite the scandal, my boy. Indeed, yes. Lemon drop?"

"Enough, Albus," a dark voice growled, and Snape emerged from the shadows.

"Severus," McGonagall greeted cooly.

"Minerva." Snape nodded his head at her, his vacant eyes flitting towards Harry. Then, away.

From behind the desk, Dumbledore coughed. "Yes, well. As pleasant as this is, we have some urgent matters to deal with. Mr. Potter, why don't you have a seat here? Severus, Minerva. Watching people stand is so tiring, don't you agree, Harry?"

"Yes, sir," Harry mumbled. They all sat.

"Albus, as this is a matter purely concerning Gryffindor House, I don't see why..."

Dumbledore smiled wanly. "All in its time, Minerva. Now let's have a look at the, how did you put it, Severus? Contraband, hmm?"

Carefully, McGonagall slid the notebook onto the desk. It made the faintest rustling sound as the torn pages were bent. Harry winced and looked away.

"'Possible enemies,'" Dumbledore read aloud, peering through his glasses. "Ah, yes. Very interesting, indeed. And," he glanced at Harry, raising an eyebrow, "personal, perhaps? Have a look, Severus."

The brooding man grabbed the notebook. "Only one Slytherin? I'm surprised," he snarked as his eyes devoured the page.

"It is surprising," the Headmaster agreed, looking _un_surprised. "Perhaps Professor McGonagall can shed some light?"

"Ahem. Of course, I have wanted to understand this myself," she said thickly. "I am afraid, however, that the situation is now out of my hands. Mr. Potter has just claimed to be the Heir!"

From his right, he heard Snape sigh heavily. Harry whipped his head around. "Well, I can talk to snakes, can't I?" he snapped, meeting Snape's piercing gaze.

"I'm afraid, Minerva," Snape said, leaning on one elbow, "that this is all a grave misunderstanding. Potter may be a narcissist, but he is _certainly_ no torch-bearer for Slytherin House."

At this point, Dumbledore broke out into a fit of coughing. "Now, now," he finally said, holding a handkerchief to his mouth. "Let's not discuss that just yet, Severus. So it is entirely impossi-"

"Do not let arrogance blind you, Severus. The boy has been acting strangely all year. He is certainly a possible suspect, and with his confession in hand, I..."

"His _confession_, Minerva? Are you referring to when he says he talks to snakes? If that is the confession that has you convinced, then perhaps the House of Gryffindor should be renamed the House of Fools!"

Harry shivered and looked away.

"Enough." Dumbledore's voice rang out like a funeral toll. The room grew quiet again. Harry shivered at the silent hostility that passed between his professors, and shrank into his chair.

"We have a guest, you see," Dumbledore continued, a bit brighter now. "And, Mr. Potter, it is now four o'clock. Would you care for some afternoon tea? I find myself thinking about those square-shaped biscuits, they really are scrumptious."

"Er." He looked up. "Yes. Thank you, sir. That would be nice."

The civility may have been forced, but it was an improvement over the arguing. Awkwardly, Harry sipped his tea and nibbled at a biscuit. He didn't make eye contact, except with the Headmaster, who kept smiling at him.

"Did you know, Minerva, that Mr. Potter has helped greatly with the search for the Chamber? Last I heard, he'd even discovered that the monster is nothing other than a basilisk! Isn't that right, Severus?"

Snape grunted an acknowledgement as he stared out the window, obviously vexed. Harry looked at him closely, but the dark eyes gave away nothing. Blinking, he leaned back in his chair.

"Indeed." Dumbledore tapped the notebook, which Harry had all but forgotten about. He stared at it now with simmering resentment.

"This, I'm sure, was just another clue to help aid our dear Severus in his pursuit for the Chamber. Unfortunately, with all these rumours flitting about, it was all too easy to misinterpret. This is a common misconception with Slytherins, isn't it, Severus?"

"Why must you insist on stating the obvious?" Snape grumbled.

"And so," Dumbledore continued blithely, ignoring him, "given the state of affairs, I think we can safely say that Mr. Potter would benefit from the wisdom of Slytherin. And certainly it would benefit from him."

He couldn't understand why McGonagall and Snape seemed suddenly so anxious. "What are you saying, Albus?" McGonagall asked sharply, setting down her teacup with a rattle.

"Resortings aren't entirely unheard of," Dumbledore said plainly, leaning back in his chair. His eyes weren't on McGonagall or Snape, but on Harry. They twinkled as they pierced him.

"Prepostrous!" McGonagall spluttered, her hand pressed against her bosom. "This is Harry Potter, and, he has already settled into Gryffindor."

"I find myself agreeing," Snape added, his lips twisting. "The boy is already in Gryffindor. Slytherin would prove to be a dangerous place for him."

His mind tried to keep up. "You want to put me in Slytherin?"

"It is merely an idle thought, Potter," Snape sneered as he glared at the Headmaster. His voice was chilly.

McGonagall cleared her throat. "Severus and I are in agreement. Now that the other matter concerning Mr. Potter is cleared up, I should escort him to dinner."

Somehow, without even moving, Dumbledore cast a spell over the room. Immobilised, Harry stared at the stern features that turned an old man into a dragon. "I don't believe this is either of your decisions," he told them plainly, swiveling to meet Harry's startled eyes. "I trust that when Mr. Potter has reached a decision on the matter, he will inform me, and together we will implement it."

As the silence stretched, Dumbledore leaned back into his chair and folded his hands. "Good day, professors. Mr. Potter."

McGonagall cleared her throat. "Come along."

x.x.x.

Soon, finding the Chamber of Secrets took on an entirely new meaning. He would be named the Heir. He would control a basilisk! Slytherin House would welcome him with open arms.

Unfortunately, that hadn't happened yet.

Malfoy laughed cruelly as Harry fell to the ground.

"Now, now, Mr. Malfoy," Flitwick scolded, but he didn't take away points. Hell, he didn't even look at Harry, that's how utterly enraptured he was with his lesson.

Flushed, Harry scrambled to his feet. His wrist ached from trying to break his fall. "It's alright, professor," he said aloud, receiving a distracted nod from Flitwick. Then, Harry turned round and smiled at Draco. But Malfoy only stared at him.

Someone at his back mumbled, "Traitor. Why's he got to be so obvious about it?"

Slowly Harry walked back to his seat.

x.x.x.

One time, when he was still going to Muggle school with Dudley, he had made a friend, Christopher. It probably lasted a day. Dudley had taken one look and was on Christopher like bread on butter. He hid his bag and pummeled him with dodge balls after school.

He thought about that a lot now. Except, there were no Dudleys at Hogwarts.

Harry hunched over the book on basilisks, scouring the page for information. For some reason, he had an enormous lump in his throat.

x.x.x.

Harry sighed.

He lay, depressed, on his bed. No, he wasn't depressed, he was tired. Tired from long hours in the library, pouring over books that had no useful information at all. Tired of avoiding the common room, of avoiding the Great Hall, of shrinking as small as he could during class.

But he was the Heir. A vision of himself, wearing robes with the Slytherin crest as everyone cheered, flitted through his mind. Gryffindors, scowling, jealous of him, while every Slytherin begged to be his friend.

That's when he felt it. A lump, innocuously underneath his pillow. Harry cautiously lifted his pillow, grateful for this one moment that he was alone. There, on his sheets, lay the plainest notebook he'd ever seen. It was leather, though. He touched it gently.

At first, he decided it was a gift from Dumbledore. After all, the man had never returned his old notebook. But then he saw, in a neat script, the engraved initials T.M.R..

"Did someone lose their notebook?" he asked the room, before he remembered that it was empty.

Swallowing, he picked it up and opened it.

Nothing.

The pages- _every_ page- was blank! Harry frowned, then thought better of it. A Slytherin would claim it for themselves, and that's exactly what he planned to do. He scrambled to get quill and ink, then, he carefully wrote his name on the inside cover.

_What if someone comes looking for their notebook? It might've been a present. _Some vague guilt washed over him, but he stamped it down and kept writing.

_I am the Heir_, he wrote, and underlined it twice. To his surprise, the ink slowly melted into the page.

New words appeared. _Then who am I?_


End file.
